


Clue

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s Take That, Bathtub Sex, Coming Out, Detectives, Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, Murder Mystery, Relationship Issues, Secret Relationship, Slow Sex, lots of fluff, nervous boys, the other lads feature a lot too, this took me four months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a luxurious hotel, Mark and Gary are about to make love for the first time when something terrible happens to one of the hotel guests. What follows, is a series of exciting, dangerous adventures, and the founding of the Take That Detective Agency. (Also, lots of sex and kissing.) </p><p>Will Mark and Gary be able to deal with the strain of hiding their relationship in the middle of a lethal mystery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like The First Time

He was being followed. That’s a thought he’d never had before.

He was used to people hiding in bushes to catch a glimpse of him, but this was something else. Unlike their fans, journalists generally stopped bothering at the first sign of bad weather; a raindrop onto a photo lens, a peal of thunder. A dark, heavy cloud spoiling what would otherwise have been a profitable, dirty shot of a certain boy band member stumbling out of a pub drunk. Or, more frequently, stormy weather compromising the journalists’ secret hideouts.

But he wasn’t being followed by the press tonight.

The image of the five-star hotel was slowly receding behind him, and yet Gary kept going. He was soaked to the bone, and his shoes squelched unpleasantly with every step he took. His clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin, making him feel like he’d taken a shower with his shirt and trousers still on; a cold, stinging, terrifying shower. He suddenly understood what Take That fans felt like when they had to queue in the rain, and he made a mental note to arrange umbrellas and cups of tea for the awards show this weekend.

Then he remembered that their appearance had been cancelled.

Still, he didn’t stop. He’d had an idea, an epiphany, and he was going to push it through. He had to if he wanted to be with Mark again.

There was a towering hedge maze on his left. Thoroughly convinced it was where he’d find what he was looking for, Gary entered it without checking whether he was still being followed. In the dark, the maze looked even more puzzling than it had when he and his bandmates first challenged it half a year or so ago. Oh, what Gary would give to be back there again . . .

Back then – on a warm evening worlds away from this night’s boisterous weather –, the boys were feeling a little bored and childish because there weren’t any attractive people around, so they decided to spend their day doing all sorts of games of hide-and-seek. In this case, the last person to reach the centre of the maze would have to buy everyone shots at the hotel bar, and the fortunate first would be allowed the next morning of rehearsals off.

This all seemed very fair, so off they went, apace, each with their own ideas of how to successfully tackle a maze. (They were taking this very seriously, you see.)

Gary arrived in the centre of the maze first. 

It was absolutely beautiful. Along the way he had come across marble statues and trees trimmed and reshaped into extravagant objects, but it was nothing compared to how much time had been spent on the eye of the maze. Here, there was a concrete bench that perfectly fitted two people, and a fountain that sprayed a pleasant drizzle over Gary’s hot, naked arms. Opposite of him, a tree shrub had been made to look like a family of elephants. A gazebo-like structure poked out from the top of the spiralling hedge just beyond, inviting him to come and look.

Mark was the next person to arrive.

It was there, in their meeting place – metres away from approaching bandmates –, that the boys first kissed. The greens of the natural labyrinth artistically highlighted the reds in Mark’s shirt, and there was something so _perfect_ about their first kiss being in a maze; a couple of feet further away, they’d be caught. Another couple of feet away and they might even get away with doing more than just kissing.

It was the best kiss he’d ever had, without a doubt.

But fast-forward to this cold October night, the maze held a sizable collection of terrifying possibilities. Every time he dodged left or right, Gary braced himself for someone to jump out at him. Who, he did not know. It might be the victim’s girlfriend after all. Or one of the police inspectors. Or, indeed, one of the artless maids whom Rob had tried chatting up.

The killer could literally be anyone. That was probably the reason why the police suspected him.

Gary thought he heard something and stopped in his tracks. Someone was definitely following him. Only one thing about this was reassuring in the midst of dark green corners and footsteps: Gary was on the right track, finally. Now he just needed to remember where the centre of the maze was.

Off he went again, into the unknown. He cursed himself for noisily stepping into a puddle, but he kept going and going.

True to that day’s weather forecast, the rain wasn’t letting up. The howling wind sounded eerily like the ghosts from Rob’s earlier horror stories. The footsteps were becoming louder.

They weren’t his.

Sometimes, when things got tough – and they often did – Mark would grip Gary’s hand tight and softly rub his thumb over Gary’s skin. It was his way of telling everything would be all right.

Everything wasn’t going to be all right.

Sudden fear settled in his body. He felt it underneath his skin, his nails. It got stuck in his hair like dirt and sand. He saw it whenever he closed his eyes and felt it when he clenched his fists. But fear of what? The police finding out that he had ignored the curfew? Fear of not being able to perform at the awards ceremony this weekend? Fear of being killed?

He inhaled sharply. It was the fear of being killed.

The fear was slowing down his steps and quickening his heartbeat, so he imagined himself back at the hotel. _Safe_ , with Mark.

In his imagination, they were sitting in front of a toasty fireplace. Mark’s head rested on his shoulder, and Gary was reading him a long, glowing review of _Everything Changes_ , the album. Getting through the first paragraphs of the review quickly so he could get to the good bit, Gary’s voice sounded raw by the time he reached the part about _Babe_. The reviewer had written that _Babe_ was the best thing on the record and that Mark, with his soft, tender vocals, had a promising career as a vocalist ahead of him.

Mark kissed Gary’s temple as he read aloud these words, and they both melted into the carpet. Later, they’d finally make love and lose their virginities to each other like they were supposed to, getting to know each other’s bodies and getting high from each other’s touches while the rest of the world could go to hell. But on that night, out in the dark, even the image of Mark couldn’t drown out the dirty feeling of wet clothes clinging to Gary skin. It didn’t stop how utterly terrified and _cold_ he was. He was completely out of his depth here, and he would likely have lost his mind if he didn’t then _finally_ succeed at reaching the centre of the maze.

It looked exactly like it had that summer.

Thinking he must still be a couple of minutes ahead of whoever was shadowing him, Gary quickly got out his torch and switched it on. He ignored the tiny sets of glowing eyes that appeared wherever he flashed his light and started looking.

It had to be here. It just _had_ to. Where else would you hide an object as important as this? Certainly not at the hotel, where two police inspectors were meticulously examining every single nook and cranny and cupboard; no, you’d hide it here, in the perpetual rain and dust, where no one was looking because they weren’t allowed to.

And indeed! He shone his light over the bench he and Mark had sat on, and there it was, a simple object in the dirt. Covered with sand and dust and twigs, it didn’t look as threatening as it must have all those hours ago. He’d bring it over to the police, and all of this would be over.

Forgetting for a moment that he was the main suspect in this case, Gary knelt on the wet, dirty ground, picked up the murder weapon, and instantly closed his eyes when he felt the sharp blow to his head.

|||||

EARLIER.

Gary wished he had paid more attention. If he had, he might not be here, getting rained on. Drifting in and out of consciousness, an acute pain in his head while time and weather expunged any signs that a struggle had taken place where he laid.

But in the nineties, things just moved too quickly to take it all in at once, or at all. One moment they were in the back of a filthy tour van that made Jackson Pollock artworks look like preschool drawings, the next they were being ushered into a hotel because the rain would ruin their hairstyles. With the added distraction of fans in ponchos flashing their cheap cameras at them, there was no time to enjoy anything.

Still, three things were important to point out in this scene. One, the weather was truly dreadful: the rain was pouring down so fast that heavy clouds had turned the sky pitch black as if it was midnight, and fans were politely sent back home by Nigel, who worried that if the young girls stayed in the rain for much longer they’d have dozens of angry parents knocking on their doors because their children had gone down with pneumonia.

Two, the hotel manager herself was waiting for the boys at reception to make sure they’d receive the best possible treatment; the excellence of their stay was _that_ important to her. After all, how will other famous and important individuals ever visit her hotel if she can’t even fulfil the wishes of five wealthy but potentially petulant guests?

Three, Mark’s pockets were bulging with something rather suspicious.

One or two of these clues might have been of use later, but naturally none of the boys were particularly paying attention to anything. For now, besides, there were no indications that something very bad was about to happen.

What the boys _were_ aware of, was that it was a Thursday in late October, six or seven o’clock or thereabouts, and that October signified the release of their second album. Only a few weeks into its release _Everything Changes_ and its chosen singles were doing very, very well indeed, and naturally such a mean feat in the British pop scene should be celebrated with many accolades that the boys had no idea what to do with.

That, in short, was what the boys were in London for: to attend an awards show and come home with as many gongs as they could. Mark and Gary were there for other reasons.

Situated in the middle of the English countryside, the impressive four-star hotel the boys were staying at had no trouble completing the feeling of _grandeur_ that some of the members of the band had been feeling lately. (One does tend to feel rather big-headed and arrogant when having scored two number one singles.)

If guests thought the mansion-like exterior of the hotel was impressive, they hadn’t been inside yet: upon entering, the world immediately felt richer and warmer. Rich guests became yet more indulgent and extravagant, and underprivileged visitors unconsciously sat a bit straighter and walked a bit taller under the hotel’s bright, gold skies. Even the staff were not untouched by its brilliance; they all felt like they mattered here, and they did.

But most impressive of all was the large reception area, which had been decorated with furniture and opulent vases that wouldn’t look out of place in a large-budget Jane Austen film, and an expensive carpet-covered wooden flooring to finish it all off. A wide staircase led to an inner balcony that overlooked the reception, and each room had been named after a famous historical figure. Bright chandeliers perfected the look brilliantly.

Gary was about to follow his eager bandmates and manager up the two familiar hands suddenly pulled him behind a pillar.

It was Mark.

‘Did you bring it?’ Mark whispered conspiratorially, eyes flicking left and right as if they were two spies discussing sensitive matters. His eye fell on two suspicious ladies who were in deep conversation at the bottom of the stairs, but they seemed pretty preoccupied themselves.

Gary nodded when Mark took his eyes off the two women. ‘The lu— er, _thing —_ ’ he corrected himself when he realised he didn’t want to say the word, ‘I put it in your bag. What about the, _you know_?’ he added under his breath when an affluent businessman walked past their hiding place. The man had just arrived at the hotel in an expensive sports car that even Gary could not afford.

Mark looked over his shoulder to see the businessman retreat into a restroom, then conjured up a handful of condoms.

Mortified, Gary instantly covered Mark’s hand with his own. ‘Jesus, Mark. I meant _a_ condom, not _twenty_ ,’ he hissed.

‘Well I don’t know, do I!’ Mark said, affronted. He quickly put the condoms back into his pocket, but not before looking round him again.

‘Nervous?’ Gary asked when Mark had zipped his trouser pocket shut.

‘Nah,’ Mark lied. 'You?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gary, blushing tremendously.

Today was the day. Today, they’d be having sex with each other. At the end of the evening, they’d no longer be inexperienced in love.

Those who knew Take That closely or intimately usually assumed that the boys took a different girl home each night, but for Mark and Gary it was nothing like that, and never had been. They’d never even _thought_ about it. While they were in love with each other, from the moment they met, Mark and Gary made a personal promise not to lose their hearts to someone else until they either got together or never got together at all. Almost four years had passed until that moment of truth finally came.

‘You’re sure though, aren’t you, Gaz?’ Mark asked uncertainly. His hands were no longer in his pockets but lingering on Gary’s sides, where they shouldn’t be because God knows in how much trouble they’d be if someone ever found out about them. Regrettably, most of their kisses took place in cupboards and toilets. (Gary, in particular, had a great fear of getting caught — but then he’d taste Mark again, and all would be better. Sometimes he even got off from the thrill.)

‘I’m sure,’ said Gary, and they kissed for the first time in days because they hadn’t had a single moment alone.

Gary’s lips felt oh so soft against Mark’s – he _smelled_ amazing, too –  and Mark might have pressed Gary against the pillar a bit more firmly if it wasn’t for their manager storming down the stairs.

‘GARY!’ Nigel hollered, and the boys let go of each other just in time. A second or two later, and he’d have seen them kissing! ‘What are you doing hiding behind that pillar for? We still have to discuss your performance for this weekend.’

‘You mean the one we’ve rehearsed already?’ Mark said challengingly, a little annoyed to have been interrupted so cruelly. (He was _just_ about to press his knee between Gary’s thighs, and . . . _ugh_.)

‘Plans have changed,’ Nigel intoned, his curt gaze directed at Gary rather than Mark, and he left without another word because that’s how he communicated most of the time, with grunts and evil glares like the exaggerated, stereotypical image of an evil manager that he was.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Gary sulked as they obediently followed their manager up the stairs at a distance a short moment later. ‘I’m telling you, if Nige has us rehearsing a brand new dance routine all night . . .’ he whispered, his thoughts trailing off. He didn’t want to think about how he’d feel if their plans for tonight were cancelled.

‘Patience, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark said with a reassuring pat on the small of Gary’s back. ‘Tonight’s the night, I promise.’

Tonight wasn’t going to be the night.

|||||

Their rooms being unexpectedly cold, the boys and Nigel returned from their band meeting only ten minutes later. Following an ‘unprecedented change in the line-up’, the boys were now to perform an improvised album medley at the awards ceremony rather than the acoustic version of _Babe_ that they had rehearsed previously. Gary had a feeling that the line-up change was a lie and that there was a different, more pressing reason why _Babe_ was not to be performed in full, but he decided not to push it for fear of being lectured. The last thing Gary needed was a lecture.

Thankfully rehearsals would not take place until tomorrow morning, which gave the boys more than enough time to enjoy their dinner and, later, each other.

The boys arrived at the dining hall at 7 PM sharp. Suiting the hotel’s four-star rating and reputation, the eating area looked absolutely beautiful; beautiful enough, in fact, to momentarily distract the guests from the terrible weather outside with its velvet chairs and tables richly laid with all kinds of food.  

Out of the nine available tables, only three were vacated. An august but grumpy-looking American businessman – the same who owned that _beautiful_ sports car outside – was sat reading that day’s morning paper next to a window. He heaved an audible sigh when he saw the boy band arrive, and took very great care to glare at them as they passed. He much preferred having dinner in peace, thank you very much.

Almost opposite of him, there were two men in their late fifties or sixties bickering over beef turkey on toast. Their already wrinkled faces were in a constant state of frowning, which made them look like two very grey Neapolitan Mastiffs. In the corner, a young lad in an expensive suit was scribbling away in a notebook while his unassuming red-haired girlfriend sighed into her glass of wine and wistfully looked out of the window like she was a character in a moody music video. In the meantime, two attractive waiters were in the middle of replacing the empty plates on the buffet table under the watchful eye of the hotel manager.

The food, of course, looked incredible.

‘Right, lads, I dunno ‘bout you guys but I’m gonna stuff meself,’ Robbie announced to his mates before grabbing a large plate from their table and heading to the buffet.

Rob’s loud voice made the American businessman look even grumpier than before, while the young lad in the suit finally looked up from his notebook, fascinated at this sudden apparition of boy banders.

Mark and Gary quietly claimed two places next to each other and followed suit. Although Gary usually had an appetite for two (or three), he returned to the table with only a small Caesar salad and one meagre helping of beans. Mark, who had yet to discover the benefits of healthy food like Jason, had _filled_ his plate with greasy chicken and chips. When he remembered that he needed his belly to look absolutely taut tonight, he deposited some of his chips on his boyfriend’s plate when Gary wasn’t looking.

Jason – content with a small helping of Tikka Masala and a glass of healthy fruit juice that he had no doubt made himself – was looking at Gary’s plate worriedly. ‘You’re not going down with something, are you, Gaz?’

‘Huh?’ Gary uttered before stabbing a tomato with his fork and putting it into his mouth.

‘It’s just – and I hope you don’t mind me pointing this out, Gaz –, you eat a lot more, usually. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.’

Gary felt himself go red in the face. How on Earth could he have an appetite knowing that he would soon be sharing a bed with Mark? How could he do anything _at all_? He looked at Mark for support, but all his boyfriend did was shake his head infinitesimally. _Not a word_ , he seemed to be saying.

‘I, er, I just didn’t see anything I fancied, is all,’ said Gary, and he put a very large amount of lettuce into his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to answer any more awkward questions.

Rob and Howard re-joined their mates with overflowing plates of food a couple of minutes later, and they ate in comfortable silence until Rob made a very rude remark about one of the “perky” hotel maids he saw earlier. Howard laughed very loudly at that, and the businessman again got so frustrated at the noise that he deliberately dumped his napkin into his bowl of soup and got up. He demonstratively complained to the hotel manager that he wanted a different table tomorrow (‘Away from those dancing youngsters!’), and left the hall without his newspaper.

‘Knob,’ Rob huffed, offended, and he pushed away his plate as if having lost his appetite.

‘Robbie, if you want us to continue visiting amazing places like this you’ll have to learn how to behave yourself,’ Nigel said, apropos of nothing. ‘This is a four-star hotel; there are important people here who would like to eat their meals without having to listen to your crude jokes.’

Nigel sounded like a veritable teacher lecturing a young, disobedient child, and he was about to do some more threatening when a man-shaped shadow fell over his plate. When Nigel turned around, there was the young man from one of the other tables standing next to them. He was brandishing a small notebook, and his hands as well as his exquisite suit, were covered in ink.

For a moment, Mark innocently thought the lad could be a songwriter like Gary, and he would probably have warmed to him if the others weren’t looking at the lad like he’d said something disagreeable. After a couple of years of meeting both wonderful and poisonous people in the pernicious music industry, most of the lads had an inbuilt radar that warned them whenever a troublemaker was around. This guy, whoever he was, was one of those people, and Nigel and Gary immediately realised that he was a journalist. The bad kind.

‘I _did_ wonder if it was you,’ said the stranger-slash-journalist. His voice had an unpleasant, strident tone to it. ( _Twat_ , Robbie thought.) ‘You all look so much taller on television. But then again, _most_ pop groups look less impressive in real life, don’t they?’

‘I’m sorry, have we met?’ said Nigel.

The stranger touched his hand to his head as if he’d forgotten something. ‘How rude of me. I haven’t even properly introduced myself! The name’s Alex.’

Mark made a movement to shake Alex’s outstretched hand, but Gary discreetly kicked his ankle underneath the table. Mark smoothly pretended to be grabbing the bottle of wine at Howard’s end of the table instead.

‘Are we supposed to know you?’ said Gary, a little rudely. He didn’t like the look of this guy. At all.

Alex smiled as if Gary’s question was an unpredicted one. ‘Of course. After all, I _did_ recently write a very – what’s the word – _insightful_ review about Take That’s latest album.’ A pause, then, ‘Or should that be Gary Barlow ft. the Backing Dancers? One can never tell with your videos,’ he added, chuckling under his breath as though it was some inside joke that only he understood.

The dining hall had gone very quiet in anticipation of a row. Opposite them, the two gentlemen who were previously arguing about their food were listening intently. The girl who was had been sitting next to Alex throughout dinner looked like she was considering stabbing herself with a fork. The hotel manager was speaking softly to herself. Was she considering how she would prevent a fistfight from taking place in her precious dining hall?

Alex’s bland eyes rested on Mark, who unconsciously made himself look even smaller than he already was. ‘Then again,’ said the callous journalist, ‘if I had band members who can’t sing in tune, _I’d_ probably want to sing lead vocals on almost everything too. What’s that final song on the album again? _Babe_ , isn’t it? Gosh, it’s dreadful. No offence, of course,’ he added with a fake smile.

That stung. Mark sounded _beautiful_ on Babe, he really did. That first take he did in Gary’s bedroom studio? After they’d talked about what they meant to each other? Unforgettable.

‘I don’t remember asking for your opinion, mate,’ said Gary, offended. Who did this Alex thought he was, having the effrontery to criticise such a tender moment on the record like that? He didn’t have the _right_.

Alex gave a wry smile. ‘You don’t ask _anyone_ for your opinion, do you, Gary? That’s probably the reason why you’re the only one doing anything in this band.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘No? _Hm._ Must be your bandmates’ lack of talent, then.’

Mark could see Gary ball his fists underneath the table.

‘ _Don’t_ ,’ Mark whispered, and he covered Gary’s hand with his own. ‘Please.’ _We can take it._

Gary swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but thankfully Nigel had already taken it upon himself to politely tell Alex to fuck off. ‘We can’t _wait_ to read your review, thank you, Alex,’ said Nigel, every word dripping with insincerity. ‘I take it it’s yet to be published?’

‘It’s in today’s newspaper, in fact.’

‘And you work for —?’

Alex mentioned the newspaper he worked for, said a dishonest thank-you and left without another word. The moment he and his bored girlfriend had sauntered out of the dining room hand-in-hand, all eyes on them, the boys and Nige all started talking at once:

‘Is this place full of pricks or what?’

‘I’m so sorry, Gaz.’

‘Are you going to finish your chicken, Markie?’

‘I’d love to clock ‘im one.’

‘He won’t be so pleased when I contact his employer,’ etcetera.

Thankfully the desserts that magically appeared on the buffet table a couple of minutes later looked _so_ delicious that it completely made the boys forget about their run-in with the reviewer. It just wasn’t important enough, especially not with all the good things that were yet to come on both a personal and professional level. Also, cakes.

People commented negatively on the boys’ output all the time. It started when they first arrived on the music scene and were wrongly compared to New Kids On The Block everywhere they went, and it was still a part of their careers now, with people saying that songs like _Pray_ and _Relight_ were too far removed from the material on their debut. The boys didn’t enjoy the criticism, but they had thicker skins than ever now; _surely_ they could survive the wrath of a single journalist? (Even if Gary hated it when people were mean to Mark . . .)

As usual, Rob was the first to sprint to the buffet, and for a moment he even considered shoving the newspaper that the American businessman had left into his trousers so that his mates wouldn’t go looking for the review Alex had written. He’d like to read it later, in his bedroom, when he was free to laugh or cry at what people thought of his lead vocals on _Everything Changes_ on his own. But strangely the newspaper had disappeared, and Rob thought no more about it.

When Rob returned to their table with two massive slices of chocolate cake plus a macaroon, his mates were still deciding what to get at the buffet table. The choice was truly tremendous: there was fresh apple pie, autumn cheesecake, brownies, chocolate chip cookies, country apple dumplings, butter bars, chocolate cake, sugar cookies, and so on. Gary was salivating just thinking about it.

‘What’re you guys ‘aving?’ said Howard, who seemed particularly interested in a rum cake. Filled with pecans and covered with a perfect dark brown glaze, it looked incredibly appetising.

‘The cream puffs look good, don’t they?’ said Gary, in awe. Then a tiramisu layer cake caught his eye, and he changed his mind. He made an appreciative noise that made Mark’s nose turn pink. ‘Then again, that cake . . .’

‘Tis a shame they don’t have the fudge from last time,’ said Rob, who had already finished his first slice of chocolate cake and was busy shoving the second one into his mouth. ‘I had fudge stuck between me teeth for the rest of the week but it was totally worth it, wasn’t it, Markie?’ he said with his mouth full.

‘I know what _I’d_ rather have for dessert,’ Mark mumbled, and when he locked eyes with Gary it was as if they were alone in the world.

Gary looked at the clean plate in his hands, then awkwardly put it back where he found it. Not unlike those precious few minutes or seconds before heading up on stage, his heart had started beating very, very fast in the knowledge that something terribly exciting was about to happen.

But first, he needed to leave.

‘D’you know what, lads, I think I’m gonna have a lie-down,’ Gary lied, more to Mark than to the others. He demonstratively covered his mouth with his hand and faked a yawn.

‘You sure you’re all right, mate?’ said Jason. Again, that worried look in his eyes.

Gary nodded. He glanced at Mark, who had guiltily turned the same colour as the red macaroons underneath his nose. ‘I – I’m just tired, is all. It’s all that travelling, isn’t it? I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow?’ he added, with an emphasis on _tomorrow_ that Mark knew meant something else.

‘Eight o’clock sharp,’ Nigel said in-between bites of cream puff. ‘Don’t be late.’

‘Eight o’clock, got it.’

‘See ya, Gaz.’

‘Take care of yourself, mate.’

‘Cheers, lads.’ But to Mark, he said, very softly, ‘Meet me in me room in half an hour.’

He gave Mark’s hand a little squeeze and walked out of the dining hall a little less steadily than he would normally have.

|||||

To avoid raising suspicion, Mark selected a nice-looking slice of chocolate cake and joined his mates in an animated conversation about who they hoped would appear at the awards ceremony this weekend. (Kylie, most of all.) Mark didn’t add much to the conversation apart from some disinterested _oohs_ and _ahs_ whenever some dull artist or band was mentioned, and so he politely excused himself once he had finished his cake. He left under the pretext that he wanted to do some mediating.

Instead of meditating like he said he was going to, Mark quickly freshened himself up and left his room feeling a complete plethora of emotions. He’d spent innumerable lonely nights imagining what it’d be like to make love to Gary, and now his fantasies were only minutes away from becoming a reality. _Oh_ , the things he wanted to do to Gary!

Like on their previous visit six months ago, the boys’ rooms were all on the first floor, in a curved corridor that led straight to the inner balcony overlooking the reception. At the other end of the corridor, there was a small staircase that led to some offices and boardrooms that affluent visitors and members of staff could rent. Also on the ground floor were the hotel’s expensive suites, only a small walk away from the courtyard and swimming pools that were reserved only for the truly affluent. (In a couple of years, Mark thought, he and Gary would come back here and book the most expensive room in the entire hotel. They’d make love 24/7 and live exclusively off room service food.)

Thankfully, Mark and Gary’s rooms were only separated by only a couple of doors, making it easier for Mark to visit his boyfriend unnoticed.

Mark had barely waited a second after knocking before Gary opened the door.

 _God_ , he looked beautiful.

Gary was beautiful, and his to take. What a tremendous thought.

For a moment too overwhelmed by the notion that _they were finally going to have sex_ , Mark and Gary just stood there staring at each other in the doorway until they both realised they should probably Do Something.

Gary made a nervous gesture that encompassed his entire room. ‘W-would you like to sit on the bed?’ he offered, sounding as nervous as he looked.

Gary had taken the effort to take a shower and put on a fresh t-shirt, but he still felt like a mess compared to Mark: this evening, his boyfriend was wearing a white blouse emblazoned with a green and yellow pattern that Gary knew must’ve cost a fortune (Mark was fashionable like that), and of course there wasn’t a single hair on his head out of place. He smelled faintly of aftershave and something else that Gary couldn’t place. He was still wearing his nose ring. ( _Oh._ )

Mark nodded and self-consciously pulled down his blouse after he’d closed the door behind him and made extra sure that it was locked.

It was a small reassurance that Mark was feeling as nervous as Gary for once. Usually in these types of situations, Mark was the one to take the initiative. Their first date in Manchester had all been Mark’s idea, and they would probably not kissed at all if it hadn’t been for Mark bravely asking Gary if he could – but what followed on this stormy night half a year later was supposed to be even better than their first kiss. It’s what they’d been looking forward to for weeks, months. They knew that they couldn’t just disappear into an office or a hotel room like ‘normal’ boyfriends, so today had been thoroughly planned. They’d even talked through what they were or weren’t comfortable with, even if they knew fuck-all about actually, _seriously_ having sex with another lad.

They could go on national TV and talk to fans about safe sex no problem, but this was something else, wasn’t it? This was them _trusting_ the other to be gentle and patient and oh so understanding, and having the faith that what they were about to do wouldn’t find its way to the judgmental ears of others.

It’s hard enough to have a lasting relationship when you’re in a boyband, but it’s much harder when the person you’re seeing is a fellow _member_ of said boyband _._

They had to meticulously plan their lives, each and every single day. They couldn’t snog each other spontaneously like other couples might. They couldn’t even hold hands for fear of starting rumours. Much like the band itself, each thing they did was carefully thought out. Every word was deliberate, calculated. But not tonight. Finally, they could be themselves.

They were sitting on the bed now, about an arm’s length away. Gary took Mark’s nervous smile as a sign to lean in and kiss him, except Mark had had the exact same idea so their noses awkwardly bumped like the stereotypical image of two very inexperienced lovers.

‘Sorry,’ Mark said, colouring, and he pulled the sleeves of his blouse over his hands as if feeling either very cold or uncomfortable.

‘Nervous too, eh?’ said Gary, spotting it.

Mark nodded quickly but said nothing. He wasn’t usually this quiet.

‘I wish I hadn’t watched those videos you-know-who leant us, they make everything look so _easy_ ,’ Gary sighed when their silence went on for too long. The end of a feather was poking out of one of the bed sheets, and Gary found himself absently pulling it out and blowing it off his fingers when he didn’t know what to do with it.  

‘You actually watched those?’ said Mark.

‘You . . . didn’t?’

Mark shook his head. ‘I was hoping we’d, you know, automatically know what we was doing. I mean,’ he added, the sheets rustling underneath his bum as he moved a little closer, ‘it can’t be _that_ hard, can it?’

Gary raised a suggestive eyebrow at that. ‘ _Well_ . . .’

‘Perv,’ Mark said, smiling, and when he leaned forward for a second time their mouths fitted perfectly.

As usual, it was a tremendously good kiss. Gary felt a hand grab his short hair and another rest underneath the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer. Mark bit Gary’s lip, and Gary exhaled, hungrily, against his lover’s mouth while Mark rubbed his hand up and down his back.

Shaking terribly, Gary moved his hands to Mark’s blouse as they kissed. He started to unbutton it, inch by inch. It took ages. By the time Gary was already shirtless, Mark was still fully dressed, and desperate to be naked.

‘Warn me next time you’re going to wear a shirt with thirty-five buttons,’ Gary groaned against Mark’s lips. He was still struggling with the top button.

‘I didn’t know you was gonna shake so much, did I? Here, let me, or we’ll be here all night . . .’

‘That was kinda my intention.’

‘Shush.’

Hands trembling just as much as Gary’s, Mark too struggled with his own blouse until he just decided to pull it over his head and half tear it in the process. It made his hair look extremely ruffled. His face, like Gary’s, was now bright red.

‘Imagine if I’d forgotten the condoms and I had to put me shirt back on and head out,’ Mark huffed, looking at the sad, torn pile that was his blouse.

Gary’s eyes went wide. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

‘Course not. They’re still in me pocket.’

‘Good, good . . .’

Having seen each other half-naked a thousand times but never like this, sat on a bed, having just kissed, Gary wasn’t sure whether he should stare at Mark’s taut, tanned body or talk about the weather (!), so he decided to focus on a stain on the ceiling while he thought of something non-embarrassing to say. Mark nervously decided to do the same thing.

For the boys, showing skin was something they were used to doing. If they weren’t wearing oversized shirts that flaunted parts of their stomachs every time they danced, they’d lift up their shirts and move _just_ _so_. Their dance routines were often hypersexual. They’d thrust and grind and make sexual comments on stage, and everyone loved it. Everyone felt at ease doing it, even Gary.

But this was something else. They were naked _for each other_ , not for an audience. That made it personal, and real, and it was slowly dawning on them that they could do whatever they wanted to each other.

Mark was the first to voice his desires. ‘D’you mind if I . . .?’ he said with a gesture at Gary’s half-naked body.

‘N-no, not at all. I – I was just about to say.’

And so they nervously started touching each other’s bodies; tentatively at first, with just the slight fingertip grazing a scar or elbow, then, as the minutes passed, more hungrily.

The gasp that escaped Mark’s mouth when Gary rubbed a certain sensitive spot was instantaneous, and curiously Mark mirrored the gesture. It elicited the same, _glorious_ response from Gary, and so Mark repeated it with his tongue.

 _Even better_.

Inch by inch, the boys learned to know and love each other’s bodies until there wasn’t a single unfamiliar piece of skin left.

That’s when Gary suddenly found himself flat on his back with Mark on top of him, straddling him with his thighs. _Keeping_ him there. Rubbing his crotch against his, like the images from the videos he’d watched. Those were invariably the scenes that turned him on most; being pinned to the bed, helplessly waiting for the next step to be taken. After all, there was something very arousing about having Mark sit on top of someone like him . . .

But all the ‘research’ in the world couldn’t have prepared Gary for the feeling of his cock twitching in his trousers when Mark moved his hands to his own zipper.

They were actually going to go through with this.

‘You sure you want this?’ Mark said, the nerves oh so obvious in his voice.

‘Y-yes,’ Gary rasped, meaning it, and he watched, in awe, how Mark pulled down his zipper and wriggled out of his tight trousers.

Mark hadn’t bothered to put on expensive boxers. They were see-through.

‘Christ,’ Gary said, referring to the perfect outline of Mark’s cock in his white boxer shorts. He was already hard, and — _oh,_ rather big. (And wet.)

Gary couldn’t help himself. He _needed_ to touch it.

Slowly, Gary moved his hands up Mark’s naked thighs and thought about all the things he wanted to do to him. He wondered what it’d be like to have Mark in his mouth. Whether Mark tasted good or tasted of nothing at all.

When his hands reached the hem of Mark’s boxers, Gary wondered if Mark would allow him to jerk him off, and if he would climax.

They were about to find out when an icy scream sounded.


	2. Lies

The boys were used to screams. Screaming girls followed them everywhere they went, to car parks and hotels, into venues and restaurants, out in the front garden of their old family homes. It was a part of their lives and would stay with them long after they’d reached the zenith of their careers. Sometimes, they even enjoyed it; what better was there of knowing you were loved than having someone scream at you from afar?

But this scream was nothing like that. It was the kind of scream that signified that very, very bad things were happening indeed.

Mark and Gary exchanged a quick, knowing look, and Mark rolled off the bed and started looking for his clothes before Gary could complain that his own body felt too cold without Mark on top of him. They were checking this out, whether Gary liked it or not.

‘What’d you think that was?’ Gary said, reluctantly getting dressed too.

He had a bad feeling about this.

Mark had already put on his blouse, then taken it off again because it was torn. ‘D’you mind if I borrow a shirt of yours?’ he said, and he went and grabbed one of Gary’s dirty jumpers off the floor after Gary had given him a quick nod.

‘It could have been a fox?’ Gary suggested, with a nod at the half-open window that overlooked the courtyard.

‘Doubt it,’ Mark huffed, and Gary instantly knew it to be true.

The cries of foxes didn’t usually make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Fully dressed, the young couple cautiously stepped out of Gary’s room to investigate. The air was colder here, nippier, like someone had turned down the heating and left the window open. It was nothing like the warmth Gary had felt when Mark sat on top of him, and he unconsciously pressed a little closer to Mark as they walked nearer to the area where the scream had come from. Maybe if he felt Mark’s arm brush against his, nothing bad would happen.

They stopped in their tracks when they saw a trail of blood on the beige carpet.

The sight made Gary’s stomach drop. He’d never seen anything like it.

Suiting the despondent scene, a lamp in the usually well-lit, wallpaper-clad corridor was flickering. Rain was hitting the window at the end of the corridor hard, creating soft, lugubrious background music with the howling wind as its melody.

For a fraction of a second Gary considered the possibility of this being a prank by Rob or Howard. Those two _did_ like causing trouble, after all, and Gary still deserved payback for that time he cleverly put whipped cream into their cans of shaving foam as a joke. (Gary was drunk that night.) Faking some sort of incident was certainly not beyond the kind of thing Rob and Howard would do to entertain themselves, but then came that metallic smell of blood. You can’t fake that.

‘Hold my hand,’ Mark said, and Gary didn’t have to be told twice.

Holding hands, the boys slowly followed the curve of the corridor, careful not to step into the tiny, footprint-shaped pools of blood. They held their breaths as if mentally preparing for one of their bandmates to leap out of the shadows and scare them, and again stopped when they saw someone standing over the lifeless body of Alex the reviewer, lying in a pool of his own blood. Murdered, at the top of the stairs to the hotel’s fancy offices and boardrooms.

The person standing next to him was his girlfriend. Traumatised. Still clutching Gary’s hand tight, Mark rested his free hand on the girlfriend’s shoulder while Gary tried his hardest not to retch at the awful, awful sight on the floor. The heart that previously pulsed only for Mark was momentarily stuck between two beats, and his body felt heavy and limp as he suddenly, for the first time in his life, learned a harsh, confrontational lesson about life; that it could end here, in a corridor, while he was alone and caught off guard. The part of Gary that was still inside his hotel room with Mark fought hard to channel out the bad: one moment now, they were going to wake up. This would all have been a dream.

When the girlfriend slowly turned to face Mark, she hardly seemed aware of her surroundings. Mascara had stained her cheeks.

It wasn’t a dream.

‘What’s your name, lady?’ Mark said, focussing on the beauty spot on the girl’s face so he wouldn’t feel compelled to look at the body on the floor.

‘J-Julia,’ she stammered.

‘Julia, why won’t you go and get some help, eh? Police, the hotel manager, anyone you can get a hold of. Can you do that for me?’ he said with a smile that was usually reserved for fans who wanted to spend the night with him; that rare, fake smile that meant the opposite of what he was saying: ‘We’re gonna sort this out, all right? Aren’t we, Gaz?’

Gaz whimpered in response.

Julia nodded tearfully, and off she went down the stairs.

Gary let go of Mark’s hand and slumped against a door, looking everywhere but at the body. He wanted to go home and sleep until all of this disappeared and turned out to be nothing but a dream, but judging by the rain and the presentiment of disaster in his stomach he wasn’t going anywhere.

He wasn’t going anywhere for a very long time.

Meanwhile, Mark’s gaze had finally landed on the shape of Alex’s dead body on the floor. Tonight was a night of firsts: Mark’s almost-first-time with Gary on one end of the spectrum, and his seeing his first dead body on the other, an odious sight forever burned into his mind’s eye. Mark prized himself for being able to get through horror movies unbothered while his bandmates hid behind the sofa holding each other tight, but this was something else. This was a man’s life, ended. In a hotel. In broad daylight.

This wasn’t just a regular visit to a hotel anymore. This was a —

‘There!’ came suddenly the shaken, high-pitched voice of Julia at the other end of the corridor. She had the hotel manager by her side. ‘My love —!’ she broke off stridently, and she pointed a shaky finger at her lover’s body before collapsing.

Then all hell broke loose.

A chambermaid screamed. There was a resounding _clang_ as a tray of champagne glasses hit the floor. Glass shattered.

Curious guests and members of staff stepped out of their rooms to watch. Others, like Rob and Howard, ran up the stairs to check out the racket.

Some people gasped. Others fainted in their doorways.

The steely hotel manager tried shepherding the gathered crowd away, out of the corridor, but they were too transfixed by the scene of death in front of them to move.

The wind made the curtains at the window float eerily upwards. The light in the corridor kept flickering on and off, creating the impression that it was the ghost of the reviewer himself touching the switch.

At the other end of the corridor, Rob found an inconspicuous object on the floor. He slipped it into his trousers without thinking and retreated to a quiet corner to inspect it, not knowing how important it would become later.

Hidden from view, Mark kissed Gary’s temple in a silent reassurance. Howard, pale and wide-eyed, was wafting a piece of paper at Julia’s white face while a maid he had been flirting with held her hand. Jason awkwardly sucked on the paper straw in his pineapple smoothie in the dining hall.

Again the hotel manager told the crowd to step away from the body. They listened, and filed out of the corridor as if in a daze.

An attempt to call the police was made, but the phone lines didn’t work. There were floods, everywhere. Rain kept pouring down. Parts of the countryside were suddenly without electricity. Even Gary, with his massive mobile phone that he shakily retrieved from his own room, could not get a hold of the police. They were trapped as well as helpless.

The rain was now falling inwards, onto the carpet, and when Gary blinked again he suddenly found himself in the reception area with the rest of the guests, bellboys, doormen, chefs, chambermaids, valets, accountants, waiters and waitresses, being talked to by the hotel manager.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed. Judging by the quick wardrobe change the manager had taken the effort to go through – she was now wearing black, with her long brown hair tied up in a demure bun; only her shoes remained unchanged –: half an hour or more. She had the two elderly gentlemen from the dining hall by her side.

‘There is no easy way of saying this, my guests,’ she began slowly, her loud, confident voice carrying all the way to the back of the room, ‘but someone was _murdered_ in this establishment.’ A collective gasp rippled through the crowd – some waitresses even sobbed, enhancing the drama of the scene –, but like a true professional, the hotel manager remained entirely emotionless. ‘I do not know which coward has committed this heinous crime, but rest assured that I — the _police_ will find him.’

She gave the crowd a long, hard, all-encompassing look. Her bright blue eyes suddenly locked with Gary’s, and Gary had to look away for fear of looking suspicious like an innocent student blamed for the theft of a textbook.

‘This hotel’s reputation will not be tarnished,’ she went on, focussing again on a spot just above the people’s heads. ‘This is an establishment that has gone through floods, fires, thieves, and dangerous gentlemen, and we shall not bow for murderers. Your comfort and safety is my priority, and I will continue to take care of you even through these difficult times.’

Robbie, who was unable to see his bandmates behind a wall of tall hat-wearing gentlemen, whispered something inaudible to himself. Several things about this woman’s words and general behaviour struck him as odd, but he could not put his finger on it. It almost tempted him to get stuck in and see if he could get to the bottom of this strange case like the heroes from his stories.

The manager went on, ‘Due to the _ghastly_ weather it is impossible for the police to get here and assist us in our tragedy,’ – Here, she gave a wry smile – ‘but thankfully we already have two _splendid_ police inspectors in our midst.’ She gestured at the two men next to her, who suddenly started as if they had quite forgotten why they were there. ‘They shall be postponing their private holiday in order to start an official investigation, _won’t you_ , gentlemen?’

The two men stepped forward. From the boys’ perspectives they were already quite old, older even than Nigel: the greyer, sterner inspector was in his early sixties and introduced himself as Davies; the other, a bit younger and very sprightly – but with his fifty years still absolutely _ancient_ in Rob’s eyes – was called Alexander. They both had very bad dress sense. Something about these two seemed off also. Could there be something bigger at play?

The two “inspectors” quickly explained that they were originally here for walks in the countryside but that they were ‘more than happy to be put in charge of the investigation until the local police get here’. They were both technically already retired, ‘but that changes nothing about how much _faith_ I have in the both of them,’ the hotel manager was quick to add. ‘However, this of course _also_ means that no-one is allowed to leave the premises until we are indeed joined by these gentlemen’s colleagues. You are to stay here, all of you, and be, what’s the word, _interrogated_.’

Another gasp rocked the crowd.

 _Interrogated? But I was in the dining hall when it all ‘appened!_ thought Howard, who was not looking forward to being talked to by a couple of old policemen at all.

 _I do not have time for this,_ thought the American businessman, _I have a meeting to attend!_

 _Christ, where are we going to promote the album now?_ thought Nigel worriedly. _Royal bloody Variety?_

 _My poor love,_ thought Julia, the victim’s girlfriend, her cheeks still stained with mascara, _I never meant for this to happen . . ._

 _Harrumph!_ thought a minor character. _That reviewer got what was coming to him._

 _I should not have eaten two slices of cake,_ thought Robbie.

‘It’s just procedure, of course,’ said Inspector Davies, followed by a twisted smile that was doing a very bad job at reassuring the bevy of potential suspects. He had been retired for three years now, and could not quite hide his excitement about being able to trot his stuff again. He might even be able to solve something now!

‘Indeed,’ said the other inspector, Alexander. ‘It’s nothing sinister.’

‘But, Sir,’ began a small, jowly lady whose walking cane rattled as she spoke, ‘my granddaughter’s birthday – I have to –’

‘ _There will be no discussion_ ,’ hollered the hotel manager, her stern voice booming over two dozen other voices. Impatience and frustration were starting to become apparent through her dark, clever disguise. ‘Stay here, or be arrested. Your choice.’ She pulled down her black blazer and ran her hands through her hair as if composing herself, and heaved a heavy sigh. It must be hard to be a hotel manager during such a difficult time. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hotel to run.’ With that, she trotted away on her dirty stilettos, leaving it up to the experienced inspectors to arrange interviews before everyone could leave and – God forbid – temper with evidence.

The bewildered crowd of guests and hotel staff remained in the reception area like a lost group of people at a dinner party. Even the chambermaids, who probably still had important jobs to do, weren’t sure whether they should stay or go after the strict speech their manager had given. Some even hoped, desperately, that they would all be exempt from partaking in the interviews because they had been such awfully good employees . . .

Rob pushed his way through the crowd to find his co-workers talking to each other next to entrance. They all looked pale and shaken.

‘Let’s stay at a two-star hotel next time, eh, lads?’ Rob joked in the hopes of lightening the mood. His eyes fell on Mark’s jumper, and he fell silent for a moment. That was definitely _not_ one of Mark’s jumpers. (Mark didn’t wear such unstylish clothes.) ‘Weren’t you wearing somethin’ else at dinner, Markie?’

Mark crossed his arms over his chest defensively. ‘I got grease on me blouse.’

Rob didn’t look at all convinced, but he let the subject drop anyway. ‘Just for the record, lads,’ he went on conspiratorially, ‘someone was murdered, right? _Under our noses_. That _definitely_ happened? Me mind’s not, you know, making this up?’

‘Definitely happened,’ said Mark.

‘Yeah,’ rasped Gary. He was feeling nauseous just thinking about it.

Thus far, the worst thing that had happened in their entire careers was being stranded on the hard shoulder in their _Do What You Like_ gear, followed closely by that time that Jay had almost been kicked out of the band for “reasons”. But now, all of that just seemed silly and insignificant in comparison.

Today was infinitely worse.

‘I hope you’re all okay, though,’ said Nigel, with unusual concern for his band’s well-being that unfortunately only lasted three precious seconds, ‘cos we’re gonna have to find somewhere else to promote the album if we can’t make it to the awards ceremony on Saturday.’

Rob huffed. ‘Right, cos promoting an album is much more important than some knob who got killed.’

‘I spent a lot of money to get you on that awards show, Robbie. Or would you rather we skip your solo song in the medley?’ Nigel whispered threateningly when a chambermaid rushed past them with a large pile of sheets in her arms. ‘The label could still decide not to make it a single next year, you know.’

Rob lurched as if he wanted to clock Nigel one, but thankfully Jason was quick to intercede and calm down the situation with his best impression of some impartial politician: ‘I think what Rob means is that he’d just like to process tonight’s events, don’t you Rob?’ Jason said softly, standing up for his bandmates for once. When Rob nodded to show that he more or less agreed, he went on, ‘We’ll be better equipped to discuss our alternatives tomorrow, I think, Nige.’

Before Nigel could come up with a million reasons why that was a Bad Idea, Inspector Alexander authoritatively joined their party and quieted the conversation. He was holding a blue ring binder that had the word ‘INVESTIGATION’ written on it in a quick scrawl of permanent marker.

‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ said the inspector, addressing Nigel rather than the boys, ‘I’d just like to talk to, er,’ – not being familiar with Take That or in fact any music released between the 70s and now, he looked inquiringly at Mark and Gary – ‘your, er, colleagues here. It’s just procedure,’ he again emphasised.

Gary’s heart leapt. _Talk to them_? But he didn’t want to talk about what he saw! He _knew_ what he saw in that corridor, and it was bloody awful!

‘Can’t you interview us all at once?’ said Nigel, ever the time-efficient band manager.

‘Oh, I fear that’s quite unprecedented,’ said Alexander. The way he was holding his ring binder told Rob that the inspector was feeling more nervous than he dared admit. How _odd_. ‘We need to take this investigation quite seriously, you see. Do you mind?’

Nigel shrugged in defeat, and so the inspector quickly took Mark and Gary to a nearby office that was usually reserved for staff meetings. The other inspector, Davies, Alexander’s older and grumpier counterpart, was already sitting at a small, rectangular table. He motioned the boys to sit down.

‘Sit, please. And don’t look so _worried_ , I only want to have a chat about what you saw tonight. Sit, sit.’

The boys complied, and once they looked more or less comfortable Inspector Alexander quietly left the room and closed the door behind him. He no doubt had more important things to do than listen to two boy banders give useless evidence.

‘Now, boys, I’m sure that you want to get back to your mates what with you being,’ – Inspector Davies glanced at the notes that he had quickly scribbled down prior to the interview; thankfully, the hotel manager had been so kind as to tell him a little bit about every guest and member of staff, including what they did for a living – ‘what’s the word, _popstars_ , so this won’t be long. I hope you don’t mind my beginning with a series of questions that might bring back some unpleasant images?’

They reluctantly shook their heads.

‘Very good. Who found the body?’

‘W-we did,’ Mark said, keen to take the lead when he saw Gary turn slightly paler next to him. ‘But I guess Julia found him first.’

The Inspector grabbed a pen. ‘ _Ah_. And who’s she?’ he asked even though he knew already.

‘She’s er, Alex’s girlfriend, Sir. Was.’

‘Did she tell you that?’

‘No, but they was sitting together at dinner, and she called him, er —’

‘“My love”, is what she called him,’ Gary interposed. ‘They were holding hands when they left dinner.’

Mark nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘So you found her at the body?’ said the inspector, busy writing notes at the same time. In his glory days, he’d have a pretty woman police constable at his side to do all his work for him. 

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘How would you describe this Julia at the time?’

‘She seemed really sad. I think she fainted as well, didn’t she?’

Gary nodded.

‘And you saw or heard nothing else?’

‘Only a scream. Julia’s, I guess.’

Gary could see Mark’s hands tremble in his lap. He wished he could reach out and touch him; clearly the sight of Alex’s body had affected Gary more than he thought, and who could blame him? It was one of the most awful, vicious things they’d both ever seen. It would likely haunt their dreams for weeks.

‘And at what time was this?’ asked the inspector with urgency. It was obviously an important question.

Mark made a face as if he didn’t know. He hadn’t really been looking at the clock when he was busy undressing for Gary. ‘Around eight or eight thirty, I suppose. Also,’ he added, sitting a little straighter as he suddenly remembered something very important, ‘the window in the corridor was open as if someone had, _you know_ , climbed out,’ he said conspiratorially, and proceeded to smile smugly to himself when Davies added this significant fact to his notebook. How cool that he was actually helping the police solve a murder case!

Davies quickly reviewed his notes, then closed the notebook as if satisfied with what he’d found out. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to add?’

The boys shook their heads.

‘Very well. You may go now, thank you, lads.’

Mark and Gary, relieved that this was finally over, got off their chairs. They were about to leave the office with a spring in their step when the other, younger inspector entered the room carrying a familiar newspaper. He whispered something into Inspector Davies’ ear, then put the newspaper on the right-hand corner of the table and left without another word.

‘Sit back down, please, gentlemen,’ said Inspector Davies suddenly, with a noticeable change in his voice that made Mark and Gary look at each other anxiously.

What could this be about?

Mark and Gary did as they were told, and Davies started to disinterestedly leaf through the broadsheet newspaper while his brand new suspects kept glancing at each other nervously. They both felt as though they’d been called into the principal’s office, not knowing exactly what for but _feeling_ in their bones that something was about to go very wrong indeed, like they were to be expelled over that chemistry test they once cheated on when they were thirteen and impressionable.

The inspector’s face had hardened after the arrival of his colleague. ‘Now, lads,’ he said, ‘you both strike me as two very decent chaps. You clearly have good manners, you’re good-looking and down to earth, kind and patient to fans . . .’ Having already run out of things to say about this overrated band, the inspector trailed off and fingered the tie around his neck like a real man would stroke his beard. After a few seconds of careful thought, he continued his monologue with a voice that sounded curiously more ominous. ‘But then again, you’d have to, wouldn’t you? You’re world famous. We can’t have people thinking you’re _bad_ , can we?’

Mark and Gary shared another look. What was Davies talking about? They had never done a bad thing in their lives, unless you counted taking illegal drugs in Amsterdam (it was _one_ time), or . . . or playing a really bad prank on an interviewer in Japan. They were good lads.

The inspector went on, still fingering his tie as he carefully thought about each and every word that left his mouth, ‘Clearly, one can only imagine what would happen if someone were to, say, publish a bad review of one of your albums; write a think piece, as it were, about why Take That is not worthy of its success.’ He paused for effect, then added, ‘But you don’t have to, do you, Mr. Barlow? You already know what that’s like.’

The inspector opened the newspaper on a specific page. There was a massive picture of Take That in their early days, looking a bit lost and miserable on stage (singing _I Found Heaven_ , judging by the dance routine), next to a review of _Everything Changes_. A one-star review.

The one Alex had written.

Then the penny dropped. It was the perfect, perfect motive.

‘Sir, I —’ Gary started, but Davies had already shushed him with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The inspector demonstratively put on his reading glasses. ‘I shan’t bore you with the entirety of the review, but my colleague has kindly highlighted some paragraphs that I’m sure you’ll find _very_ enlightening indeed.’ He cleared his throat, and read aloud a large portion of the review that ended thus: ‘“Take That are proof that even the most inept of schoolboys can become so-called popstars, simply because their repugnant take on music somehow speaks to the simple minds of thirteen-year-olds.”

‘ _Oof_ ,’ the inspector uttered in a manner that was no doubt meant to provoke. ‘That must sting, surely? To be described so negatively, and by an interesting young lad your age as well! But would you look at that, there’s even more: “Towards the end of the record, Barlow’s obtuse approach to songwriting has become no more than a cry for help, with the below par _Babe_ being the icing on Take That’s manufactured jelly-smeared bottoms. One can only hope that the band’s next release is ignored by the general public in favour of their more credible contemporaries,” etcetera, etcetera.’

The inspector took off his glasses. ‘Mr. Barlow, where were you between eight and eight thirty this evening?’

Gary’s heart sank. The inspector thought he had done it! But he couldn’t have — he hadn’t even — but he couldn’t — he was with Mark when it all happened!

 _He was with Mark when it all happened_.

‘I’m waiting, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary swallowed, and decided to tell the biggest lie of his life: ‘I was alone, Sir.’ 


	3. The Take That Detective Agency

‘You were alone,’ repeated the inspector, the utterance devoid of any emotion. ‘But you and Mark found the body _together_ , did you not?’

‘I – I went to his – Mark’s – room to ask for help w-when I heard the scream,’ Gary rasped. He could literally _feel_ Mark’s eyes bore into the side of his head. ‘We hadn’t seen each other since dinner. I had Caesar Salad and chips,’ he added in a nervous attempt to sound more trustworthy. It didn’t work.

‘I see.’ The inspector clasped his hands on the table and gave Gary a long, hard look. ‘Let me just paint the scene here, if you don’t mind, Gary. You’ve read the review, and you’re _gutted._ Your manager is dissatisfied because you, as sole songwriter of the band – do I say that right? – are clearly not capable of coming up with material that pleases all demographics, and you fear your position in the band may be at risk. Your fan base is too young and too loyal to be interested in one-star reviews, but naturally you’d like to connect with a more mature, credible audience such as the newspaper the victim wrote for attracts. You don’t want to sing in front of young girls _forever_ , do you? _Do you_ , Gary?’

Gary gave a little shake of his head. He was as white as a sheet.

‘But then there’s that review, _completely_ obliterating your chances of ever being taken seriously by a different audience. It’s scathing and humiliating and everything else you don’t stand for, and how could you _not_ get angry at that? All you ever wanted was to be respected . . .’

The inspector paused to take in the boys’ expressions. Gary’s was pure horror; Mark’s, a mix of anger and something else that the inspector couldn’t place, but he’d get there. He’d solve this crime and prove that you good old-fashioned gut instinct will get you anywhere. These boys were hiding something, he could tell.

Davies went on, ‘You arrive at the hotel this afternoon, the review still nagging at you everywhere you go, and suddenly you’re eye to eye with its writer at dinner. He had every four or five-star hotel at his disposal, and yet he chose this – very – one. Quite a coincidence, no?’ He paused, then went on conspiratorially, ‘Or did you know all along? Did you perhaps bribe your driver to take you here?’

‘Inspector, I . . .’

‘Oh,’ the inspector went on undisturbed, ‘it must’ve been _so_ hard to listen to Alex talk about your music that, and then he even goes and makes fun of your friend here.’ He waved a hand at Mark, who reflexively sank back into his chair. ‘How did that make you feel, Gary? Did you feel _angry_ when Alex criticised one of your songs? Did you want to punch him when he criticised you?’

‘Inspector, Sir, I’m telling you . . .’

‘Frustrated, you decide to take a drink to get your mind off Alex, and another . . . and then you meet him, out there. In the corridor. _And you kill him_.’

Gary started. ‘N-no, I —’

The inspector cut him off. ‘But it’s okay,’ he went on, ‘you’re young and sympathetic and perhaps Alex provoked you like he did in the dining hall, and the jury _might_ just give you the benefit of the doubt. You haven’t got a criminal record either, and being as clever as you are you confessed to the crime on the evening of the murder so you’ll be back in the real world in a couple of years. Perhaps even less.’

Gary rudely held his breath when Davies decided to lean forward. His breath reeked of coffee and cigarettes.

‘So why don’t you just confess, son?’

Gary looked at the inspector, then at Mark (who was avoiding his eye), then at the inspector again. A feeling of nausea was creeping up on him that he had never experienced before. ‘I didn’t do this, I swear,’ he stammered, terrified. ‘You have to believe me.’

‘Hm. I see,’ said Davies, for now believing Gary’s plea. ‘If _you_ didn’t kill him, then perhaps your mate here did,’ he said to Mark, who was doing a very good job at leaning away from Gary as much as he could in his uncomfortable chair. ‘Where were _you_ at the time of the murder, Mr. Owen?’

Mark stared at his hands. They were shaking. Of anger or fear, there was no way of telling. ‘I was on me own. Watching Eastenders,’ he lied through his teeth.

‘There was no one with you?’

Mark’s eyes flicked right, where Gary was sat. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry. ‘No, Sir.’

‘Well, well,’ said the inspector, ‘this isn’t looking good, is it? _Is it_?’

‘No, Sir,’ Mark mumbled. He knew that this was what he and Gary had agreed, that this is what Gary wanted because he needed time and patience and all the other things that they both believed they should give each other, but the more he thought about it the less certain Mark felt that it was what _he_ wanted. Needed. He wanted to shout his love for Gary from the rooftops if he so could, and live in a world where they were able to hold hands and not be judged for everything they were — but that’s not how their world worked.

Gary braced himself for another question, another reason why Gary _must_ be the murderer, but none came. It was over. Davies was just trying to scare them. He must know Gary hadn’t done it, _surely_. This was just a part of the game they were in the middle of.

The inspector made an outwards motion with his hand. ‘You may leave now,’ he said without looking at the boys, and Mark and Gary got up from their seats and walked away a little unsteadily.

It wasn’t until Gary closed the office door behind him that he the seriousness of his confession hit him right in the gut.

He had lied about his feelings for Mark. Pretended they didn’t exist, even.

 _Shit_.

‘Mate, about what I said to the inspector . . .’ Gary trailed off when they reached a quiet, empty corridor, desperate to explain himself but not knowing what he wanted to say.

He knew how bad it was. He knew how bad it made him look, but how could he ever admit to being queer when so many aspects of his career depended on people liking him? He loved Mark dearly and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him if he could, truly he did, but there wasn’t a single part of him that wanted to be ‘out’. Even his family didn’t know that he fancied boys, and _God_ did he want to keep it that way.

He just didn’t want his sexuality to become a ‘thing’ now that his career was finally where he wanted it to be. Being publically outed would kick-start a shitstorm of rumours that he wasn’t sure he or Take That would withstand, especially not with the amount of interest they’d garnered around the world and how quickly he knew the British media could tear artists off their pedestals again. Irrationally he feared that his coming out would create countless unsubstantiated stories about band members using sex to get into the band or, worse, being accused of lying to his fans about whom he loved; quite frankly he wasn’t sure whether his female fans would still like him if he wasn’t available to them anymore.

He wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.

Was it silly and unfair to lie to the police about who he was with this evening? Perhaps, but it wasn’t as bad as the prospect of having his sexuality scrutinised when he hardly knew what his sexuality was himself. Alex the reviewer, sad as it was that he got killed, wasn’t his problem. Neither was the police investigation.

But his sexuality was.

In his haze of concentration, Gary had neglected to keep pace with Mark, who had stopped at a window in a long, deserted corridor. Head turned away from his reluctant boyfriend, he stared at the raindrops quickly chasing each other on the window as if deep in thought, and sighed.

He knew this would happen.

‘Look, Gaz,’ Mark said, turning away from the window now, ‘We’ve talked about this. I understand that you don’t wanna be out yet, you know that,’ – Gary did; Mark and Gary discussed it the day of their first kiss: they’d agreed that they would never kiss each other in public ever, ever, ever again — unless they were a bit horny or desperate or hidden from view, in which case they would be a little more careless and almost get caught by a journalist like in Milan two months ago – ‘but someone was _murdered_. D’you really care more about your reputation than ending up in prison? _Prison_ , Gaz,’ he emphasised.

‘Jesus, Mark, it’s not like they’ll actually _arrest_ me.’

‘I know,’ Mark said unconvincingly, ‘but still. Why lie?’

Gary stared at the ground. He never really thought they’d be having this conversation again, for it all just seemed so logical to him; they were stars, celebrities. Of _course_ they were going to keep this quiet. If they didn’t, they’d be putting their own and their mates’ careers at risk.

‘I just don’t want people to start treating me differently, is all,’ Gary mumbled. ‘Or stop liking me and me music.’

‘People won’t care that you’re _gay_ , Gary. Nige won’t.’

‘Bisexual,’ Gary corrected him. (He’d read about it in a magazine once.) ‘And our fans might.’

‘Their loss.’ Mark was silent, then said, more to the ground than to his boyfriend, ‘I just don’t wanna lose you, all right? I get that it’s awkward admitting that you were with me tonight and that you wanna keep things quiet, but if you ended up in trouble over this I’d never forgive meself. You’re me everything, you know,’ he added while a blush blossomed on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Hundreds upon hundreds of never-ending and never-stopping tiny raindrops hit the window so hard and so loudly that it almost drowned out Mark’s words.

But Gary had heard them, every single one.

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Gary muttered. ‘They’ll find the person who did it soon enough anyway, those two,’ he added, in his ignorance genuinely convinced that this thing would soon blow over and that they’d be back in London to perform at the awards ceremony in no-time. As far as Gary was concerned, it didn’t matter what he’d said tonight, not really; the police would find out that he didn’t have anything to do with the murder soon enough and arrest the right person. What he had planned to do with Mark tonight was his own secret to keep, and naively he assumed that his lies wouldn’t have any repercussions.

Of course, these were simply the thoughts of a man who was trying to kid himself, and for a moment, Mark was foolish enough to make them his own. Gary was right, it didn’t matter. The inspectors would find the murderer. This would all pass. They’d soon be making sweet, sweet love, lost in a state that was oh so far removed from death and disaster.

‘C’mere, you idiot,’ Mark said affectionately, and he wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and held him in a tight embrace.

They looked at each other and kissed, with Mark clenching the thin fabric on Gary’s back in his fists as if not wanting to let go of his lover, ever. (It was only now that Gary realised how good Mark looked in his own jumper, too. It was kinda sexy.)

‘I love you,’ Mark said, and he elicited a _mm_ from Gary when he rubbed his nose against his lover’s neck. (Sensitive spot.) ‘I wish we could’ve made love tonight.’

‘We still could?’

Mark chuckled against Gary’s skin. ‘You mean right here? In _public_? I thought that went against your principles, Mr. Barlow. _You cheeky bugger_ ,’ he said in a voice as sexy as he could muster post-interview, and they put the subject out of their minds as their innocent hands wandered a little lower, utterly convinced that they were alone in this quiet part of the hotel. At a different hour they might even have gotten away with it, but unfortunately they weren’t alone at all tonight; one of their band mates had actually come down the stairs a couple of minutes ago and accidentally overheard parts of their conversation!

Seeing that his mates were being very intimate – an unprecedented sight, but not one that caught him unawares; you’d have to be _blind_ not to see the way those two looked at each other, with them always sort of staring at each other during breakfast and dinner –, Rob quickly hid behind a plant pot and caught the part about Gary ending up in jail.

The boys didn’t seem to be joking, and for a long minute Rob genuinely didn’t understand why his mates looked so worried or why Mark was afraid that Gary would be arrested for a murder that he clearly didn’t commit. Alex might’ve been a knob, but he was also a complete stranger. What was the big deal?

Then Rob remembered the object he found upstairs – a piece of evidence, he know realised – and understood with a pang how wrong he was.

Spurred on by this burning piece of information, Rob slipped out of his hiding place before he could accidentally witness something that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life and quickly went back to his room to think. When fifteen or twenty minutes of hard thinking had passed (he had by now decided a Manager-less Emergency Band Meeting was needed), Detective Alexander knocked on his door to ask him if he could please join his colleague for a quick interview about the night’s “incidents”. Rob quickly hid his piece of evidence in a place where the sun didn’t shine and experienced his very first official interrogation with an actual police inspector a couple of minutes later. (Rob found this very exciting.) He joined Jay and Dougie in the reception area when the interview was over.

Whereas the reception area had been relatively quiet when the boys arrived there several hours ago, it was now a cauldron of activity. There were guests and visitors everywhere. A married couple that Rob had not seen earlier was in the middle of an angry conversation with the unusually calm hotel manager. Maids were hurrying left and right, worried looks on their faces. The American businessman that told the lads off for being too loud at dinner was on his mobile phone, shouting insults at the person on the other end of the line. Impressively, he was lecturing the valet for not parking his supercar properly at the same time. A placard had been put up by one of the staff that said that ‘tonight’s entertainment’ had been cancelled. (Karaoke, Rob’s favourite.) An old man entered the hotel looking absolutely soaked from that night’s rain.

Howard was sitting on a red leather sofa to mentally recover from his own interview with the inspector, with Jason reading a book next to him. The title was very wordy, and the book itself didn’t look like it had any pictures in it. (It was probably one of his boring self-help books, Rob thought. Jay had once loaned him one after he admitted that he was having trouble sleeping, and the book was in fact so dull that Rob fell asleep after the first paragraph. Rob surmised that wasn’t really the point of the book, so he gave it back to Jay the next day and lied that he had ‘found it very enlightening’ and that he had slept incredibly well, thank you very much. Jay was still recommending him new books to this day.)

Upon arriving, Rob immediately told the boys that they were in dire need of a Manager-less Emergency Band Meeting. Annoyingly, he could only shrug vaguely when a curious Howard asked him what was up.

‘We can’t just do a band meeting without Nigel, Robbie,’ Jason pointed out. A true professional, he felt like it wasn’t the most auspicious moment to hold a band meeting when they weren’t going to come anywhere _near_ a stage this weekend anyway.

Rob continued to say nothing until a quite red-faced Gary joined their party a minute later.

‘Hiya, Gaz,’ he said.

‘Hi Rob,’ Gary rasped. He sounded a little distracted.

‘How’d your interview go, Gaz?’ said Howard. ‘You were gone for ages.’

Gary ignored the question. ‘What’re you all sitting here for?’ he said, looking at his three bandmates sharing a very small sofa. Usually around this time of evening, the boys would be at the hotel bar getting hammered or otherwise preoccupying themselves with getting into a girl’s pants. ( _Ew_.)

‘Rob ‘ere reckons we need to have a Manager-less Emergency Band Meeting,’ Howard said indifferently.

That sounded suspicious.

‘ _Why_?’ asked Gary, a little too quickly. The slightest hint of worry coloured his voice.

Could this have to do with . . . ?

But Rob wasn’t telling anyone anything. ‘I’ll explain later,’ he said with aplomb, and he got off from the sofa when an equally red-looking Mark walked into the reception area a couple of seconds later. His hair looked strangely ruffled. (Why he and Gary were still trying to pretend that they weren’t actually shagging was beyond Rob. Tacky _couple t-shirts_ were less obvious than this.)

‘My room, c’mon, lads,’ Rob said in a voice as adult as he could conjure up. He took Mark by the hand, who let out a yelp of surprise, and pulled his mate up the stairs before he could start one of his bloody staring sessions with Gary that would no doubt take up three years of their precious time.

Mark shot a worried glance at Gary. ‘What’re we doing?’ he mouthed.

‘Emergency band meeting, apparently,’ said Gary, looking a bit tired as he followed his mates up the stairs.

‘Band meeting about what?’ said an increasingly worried-sounding Mark, his hand still held by Rob if his mate didn’t want him to run off for some reason.

‘Dunno, Bob wouldn’t say,’ Gary sighed, and they all filed into Rob’s room like a short conga line of boy banders a couple of minutes later.

Rob’s room being the furthest away from the crime scene, there was no sign that something bad had happened. Under other circumstances his room would have been just another a part of just another ordinary hotel corridor in an equally ordinary hotel, but that did not magically erase the blood out of the carpet. It also did not stop Gary from seeing the dead reviewer’s face in his mind’s eye, but thankfully the image left his mind the moment Howard closed the door behind them, for now.

The ornate chairs that were stood in front of a small writing desk were already vacated by piles of clothes, so they all had to sit on Rob’s unmade bed. The box spring gave a complaining squeak as they did so.

‘Have you been smoking in here?’ Jason said, making a disgusted face as he propped up a pillow and sat at the head of the bed quite comfortably.

Rob shoved a packet of cigarettes on the floor unseen. ‘Nope,’ he lied. ‘I don’t smoke, me.’

The boys all stared at each other in silence until Gary demonstratively cleared his throat.

‘Get on with it, Bob. Why are we here?’ he said, a little moodily, and it wasn’t until the words left his mouth that Gary realised that the day’s events had completely enervated him. He was absolutely _knackered,_ and all he wanted was to go back to his room and sleep and maybe fuck Mark senseless but it wasn’t that kind of day and he wouldn’t know how to fuck Mark anyway because he was still a fucking virgin because _someone_ had to go and murder someone when he was about to touch Mark’s willy for the first time. ‘We haven’t got all fucking day,’ he added without thinking, and Mark pinched his left arm in disapproval.

‘All right, all right, no need to get grumpy,’ Rob said with a vexed glare at his bandmate, ‘I’m only trying to help. I can’t do that when you don’t even listen to what I’ve got to say, can I?’

Gary blushed a little. ‘Soz, Rob. Go on.’

Robbie hesitated, then pulled the newspaper that he’d found in the corridor out of his trousers. He artistically laid it out on the bed for the others to see and waited for someone to start asking the questions that he had been mulling over for the past thirty minutes.

Gary recognised the newspaper immediately. It was the one Alex worked for. _Used_ to work for.  

Suddenly, Gary’s ignorant belief that lying to the police wasn’t such a big deal diminished. What if it was going to come back and bite him in the arse after all?

‘What’s this, Rob?’ he said, heart rate increasing because he remembered the passages that the two elderly policemen had quoted for him all too well. He kept hearing them, over and over: three hundred simple words, painful proof that he might have killed someone out of sheer envy and frustration. He didn’t want to hear or read those words ever again.

‘Found it at the murder scene, didn’t I?’ said Rob.

Howard let out a low whistle between his lips. ‘Hoo boy.’

‘You took evidence from the murder scene?’ Mark whispered. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Hang on, Markie, I didn’t know it was _evidence_ when I took it, all right,’ Rob explained. He crossed his arms defensively. ‘I just wanted to see if there was something ‘bout me solo song in the review.’

Howard: ‘Was there?’

‘That’s not the point, How.’

‘Then what, Rob?’ said Jason, not understanding what his bandmate was getting at. Like Gary half an hour ago, he was still under the impression that the interrogations had simply been part of police procedure and that none of his mates were in any trouble. (Apart from Robbie for taking evidence as his own, but it was only a newspaper; what harm would that do?)

But Gary and Mark understood perfectly.

They were in very, very deep trouble.

With a deep sigh, Robbie opened the newspaper to where the review was and elicited a great, collective gasp from his bandmates. The review had been circled and scribbled on in Gary’s handwriting.

The handwriting was almost a perfect match, and it’d been used to write terrible, outrageous slurs all over the review. _I hate you_ , over and over. Promises to pay Alex for what he had written, all perfectly emulated with Gary’s small letters and dotted i’s. It was such a good likeness that for a moment Gary genuinely wasn’t sure whether he _had_ read the review before coming here and that he had written the threats in a drunken, desperate moment, but he couldn’t have. He was with his mates the entire time.

He was being set up. He had lied to the police about his whereabouts, and now someone was setting him up for murder.

The boys all looked at him, and Gary felt the instant need to defend himself. ‘I didn’t do this,’ he said, desperate to be believed. ‘A-anyone could’ve found one of me old letters to fans and copied me handwriting.’

‘We know that, Gaz. I mean, this is just a joke, innit?’ said Rob, trying to sound hopeful but failing miserably. ‘We can show this to the police and prove that you’re being framed or somethin’. I mean, you was busy doing somethin’ else when the murder took place, right, Gaz? You have an alibi.’ He looked round him anxiously. ‘Everybody ‘ere does.’

Gary stared at his own hands in his lap. His palms were sweaty. ‘I told the police I was on me own at the time of the murder,’ he mumbled. The world round him was spinning.

Robbie, Howard, and Jason shared a look.

‘But you and Mark found the _body_ , Gaz,’ said Jason, still not understanding. ‘You were _with_ him when Alex’s life was taken.’ He looked at Mark, who had suddenly found a particular interest in one of the motifs on his borrowed jumper. ‘Why lie? This is important, boys,’ he stressed. ‘We can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s going on.’

Mark scratched the back of his head like a man who didn’t know what to do. Finally, he spoke. ‘Weweretryingtoshag,’ he admitted unintelligibly.

‘What?’

Gary sighed. There was no point keeping it quiet now. ‘We were trying to shag,’ he admitted reluctantly.

Complete silence.

Jason tilted his head as though he thought he might have misheard. ‘When you say ‘shag’ . . .’

‘We were trying to have sex,’ Mark explained, cheeks burning. ‘With each other. We’re lovers. I’m gay, and he’s . . . bipedal or somethin’.’

‘Bisexual,’ Gary corrected him.

Nonplussed, Howard and Jason looked at each other, then quietly got out their wallets and pulled out a ten-pound note each. They handed them to Rob, who looked at the money smugly before shoving the notes into his pocket, proud to have won the bet.

That, in short, is the story of how Mark and Gary came out to their bandmates. It wasn’t quite the life-changing Moment Gary thought it would be, but then again these things rarely go as they’re planned; when Mark came out to his mum over dinner, all she did was offer him another pancake and ask him whether he’d talked to that ‘cute lad in his pop group’ yet. (Awkwardly, she was talking about Robbie.)  

‘I still don’t understand why you couldn’t just be honest to the police though, Gaz,’ said an ignorant Jason. ‘Someone was _murdered_.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Rob, sparing Gary the awkwardness of having to explain his reasons, ‘how’re we gonna prove that Gaz didn’t do it? The police already have it in for ‘im, don’t they, Gaz?’

Gary nodded regretfully. ‘Inspector Davies thinks I’ve done it, pretty much.’

‘Wouldn’t the review make all of us suspects, though?’ Mark pointed out. ‘We was all seen arguing with this guy earlier, and none of us are spared in this review.’ He nodded at the newspaper at Rob’s feet. ‘The killer could be trying to frame any of us, you know.’

‘Not us, Markie,’ Howard was keen to point out. ‘We was too busy chatting up one of the maids to ‘ave done any murdering. I was ‘appy the hotel manager wasn’t there to see it or we’d all’ve been kicked out for bad behaviour. I think you almost got her number, didn’t you, Robbie?’

Rob nodded, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

Mark sighed. ‘ _Great._ So we’re the only ones who could’ve done it.’

‘There must be something else we can do,’ Jason was quick to add. ‘Something that doesn’t . . . put your sexualities out in the open, I mean.’

‘There is, my friend, there is . . .’ Rob said. He got off from the bed, pulled his rucksack from underneath a small table and upturned it. From the bag’s questionable contents – dirty underwear, a Nintendo Gameboy that Gary was certain was _his_ (Gary still had not finished the _Mega Man III_ game that he purchased a couple of months ago), some condoms, an inflatable chair – Rob took a small notebook that was torn at the edges and mottled with smears of ink, and a pen. 

‘I read this in a book once,’ Rob said before sitting back down. ‘All the best detectives do it.’

Gary huffed. ‘You read books now, do you?’

‘Ha ha, very _funny_ ,’ Rob said, with a little roll of his eyes that implied he was used to this sort of light-hearted comment. ‘Anyway, we write down the names of every person who’s ‘ere and see if we can discover motive and alibi and all that. I’ll start,’ he added when his mates looked at him blankly, and he proceeded to write Gary’s name on a brand new page.

‘Hang on,’ said Gary, straining to make sense of Robbie’s illegible handwriting (they had all crowded around Rob to see what he was doing and were now sitting very closely to one another), ‘why’re you writing down _my_ name? I didn’t do it!’

‘I know that, but we need to start _somewhere_ , don’t we?’ Rob explained, and he wrote thus:

**| _Gary Barlow_** __  
**| _Occupation:_** _songwriter and member of the best band in the world  
_ **| _Motive:_** _the victim wrote a negative review about Everything Changes, the best album in the world._

Rob, who was loving the attention, looked up from his notebook and spoke to his mates like a teacher addressing his students: ‘What should I write down for “alibi”, lads?’

‘N-nothing,’ said Gary. He had visibly blanched over the course of their conversation.

‘Sodomy,’ laughed Howard. (This was followed by painful jabs in the stomach from both Gary and Jason, which only made Howard laugh more.)

‘Cuddling with Mark,’ said Mark.

Rob continued writing.

**| _Alibi:_** _cuddling with Mark at the time of the murder. SUSPECT RULED OUT._

_Nb. A copy of the review was later found at the crime scene with Mr. Barlow’s alleged handwriting all over it: proof that he is being set up?_

Then, Rob assiduously proceeded to add a similar note for Mark, whose motive and alibi were, of course, more or less the same as Gary’s. Howard and Jason also got a page and were noted as being ‘seen talking to an attractive maid at the reception at the time of the murder’. Finally, Nigel was quickly ruled out too because a murder case would simply cost him too much money, and he was in the dining hall the entire time anyway.

‘Who’s next?’ said Rob.

‘Oh, I know,’ said Mark, who was beginning to enjoy this amateurish sleuthing, ‘the, er, American businessman who got angry at us for being too loud at dinner. He could have anger issues?’ he suggested.

‘Good thinking, Markie,’ Robbie nodded. ‘I saw ‘im arguing with the valet about his car earlier and he looked properly aggressive, like.’

‘Yeah, but the businessman left dinner before the reviewer showed up at our table, didn’t he?’ Howard intervened. ‘He wasn’t there to see us chatting to Alex about the review so he wouldn’t have considered framing one of us for the murder.’

Mark shrugged. ‘He was reading the newspaper when we arrived though. He could’ve read the review and put one and two together and then, you know, planted his own copy of the paper at the murder scene to make it look like he didn’t have anything to do with it.’

‘Wouldn’t there’ve been fingerprints all over it though?’ said Howard.

‘Not if someone else went and picked it up,’ said Mark, with a glance at Rob.

(‘I have a headache’, thought Gary.)

Rob added the businessman to the list.

**| _Businessman_** __  
**|** _**Occupation:** businessman  
_ **| _Motive:_** _anger issues_

‘“Anger issues” is not really a motive, though, is it?’ Howard pointed out.

‘Fine,’ said Rob, and he crossed out ‘anger issues’ and added:

**| _Motive:_** _none  
_ **| _Alibi:_** _none_

‘What about the two retired policemen, boys?’ Jason suggested. He’d gotten the hang of this whole “solving a murder” malarkey now too. ‘They’re very kind men and all that, and I’ve no doubt they’re very good at their jobs given how quickly they were able to set up the interviews . . . but if you don’t mind me saying, it all seems very opportunistic, don’t you think?’

Rob arched an eyebrow. He’d, of course, had the same thought what with his being the very intelligent self-appointed leader of the Take That Detective Agency, but he was waiting for his mates to figure it out too. ‘Explain, Mr. Orange.’

‘It’s just — it’s all too much of a coincidence, I think. The murder, the bad weather forestalling the arrival of the actual police, the two retired inspectors happening to be here at the right moment, as it were . . .’ Jason looked round him. ‘D’you see what I mean?’

‘I do, Jay,’ said Howard, sitting a little straighter. ‘One of ‘em said that this were his first case in years, didn’t he? He could be one of them bent police fellas who’s keen to show he’s still got it by letting all the evidence point at one person and then arresting ‘im. Happens in films all the time, doesn’t it?’

Mark caught Gary looking very pale, so he proceeded to rub the small of Gary’s back when the others weren’t looking. Gary returned the gesture with a quick, grateful smile. He didn’t deserve someone as good as Mark.

‘And they left the dining hall before we did, if my memory serves me correctly,’ Jason added thoughtfully. ‘Enough time to murder the reviewer and let the evidence point at Gary here.’

Howard corroborated that finding, and the retired policemen were added to the case notebook. 

‘By the way,’ said Rob as he turned to a new page, ‘I reckon we need to discuss what we all said to the police this evening.’ (At the word “police”, he made inverted comma signs with his fingers.) ‘If they interrogate us again we need to make sure our stories are consistent, if you know what I mean. We don’t wanna get each other in trouble.’ He turned to Mark and Gary first. ‘What about you guys?’

Gary blushed furiously as Mark repeated their joint interview with the police inspectors word for word, including the part when Mark had to lie that he was watching Eastenders in his room at the time of the murder because _someone_ didn’t want to admit that they were snogging. Before Gary could begin to feel guiltier than he already was, Mark playfully squeezed his hand to indicate that he was joking, and they kissed in front of their bandmates for the first time ever. (No tongues; it was just a gentle peck on the lips.) Howard let out a strangled half-whoop, half-cry, Jason looked at the sight with his eyes wide open, and Rob turned a little red as he pretended to be scribbling away in his notebook.

The moment the kiss was over and Gary’s eyes fluttered back open, it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders that he didn’t know was there. His bandmates knew that he liked boys. _And they were okay with it._ (Then again, the fact that they didn’t complain when they were asked to perform at gay clubs at the start of their careers was a bit of a giveaway now that he thought about it.)

As for the rest of the interviews, Rob had regaled the inspectors with a detailed story about how he had been planning to get the attractive maid’s phone number and was consequently led off the hook rather quickly. He was no longer a suspect, if he ever had been. Howard vaguely remembered needing to take a shit during the interview, and Jason simply told the police everything that Rob had already told them, i.e. they were talking to one of the maids, and that’s when the reviewer was regrettably killed. They weren’t in the right place to have done it.

‘I suppose we can rule out the maid,’ Mark said. ‘Unless she has a twin sister.’

Rob wrote her down anyway.

 **| _Macy? May? Meredith._** __  
**|** _**Occupation:** maid  
_**| _Motive:_** _being drop dead gorgeous and also my future wife_ —

Jason gave Rob a disapproving look.  
__  
**| _Motive:_** _none_  
**| _Alibi:_** _being chatted up by yours truly. SUSPECT RULED OUT._

‘Do we know how Alex was killed?’ Howard said after Rob had written down all the boys’ alibis and turned to a new page.

‘It was a knife,’ Mark said.

‘How’d you know?’

‘I saw the body, How,’ Mark said curtly. He shivered, and went on to explain what Alex’s body had looked like in lurid detail. When he was done, Gary had gone back to looking very pale. Howard and Jason were shifting on the bed uncomfortably as if they were suddenly afraid that the murderer himself was going to show up and kill them all.

‘A knife, then. Good, that really narrows it down,’ Rob said sarcastically before adding the fact to his notebook. ‘I’ll write down all the waiters and chefs as well, shall I?’

‘I’m sorry, Rob,’ said Mark.

Rob shrugged. ‘At least we now know that the killer must’ve used considerable force for the wound to look like that.’

‘So it definitely can’t’ve been Gary, then,’ Howard pointed out. ‘He gets tired after two sit-ups.’

Gary rolled his eyes. ‘Thanks, mate. So how are we going to find the murder weapon in this mess?’

Rob raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t yet pointed out that for the Take That Detective Agency to be a proper thing, they’d have to go out and investigate as well. Just writing down the names of the suspects wasn’t enough; there was going to be a lot of searching and interrogating involved too. Clearly Gary now saw that too.

‘Anyone could have gone and grabbed a knife from the dining hall,’ said Mark, a little disappointed because finding the murder weapon would likely prove impossible.  

‘Not from the dining hall, they wouldn’t,’ Gary said. ‘They were so blunt you couldn’t cut an apple with them, those knives.’

‘It could have been a Swiss army knife,’ Mark suggested. ‘Men usually carry army knives, don’t they?’

‘Or ladies with very small pockets,’ said Rob.

Mark and Gary shared a look, and they both explained how Julia, Alex’s girlfriend, had somehow been the first to find Alex’s body and that she was completely hysterical when she returned with the hotel manager a couple of minutes later. Could she have been faking it so people wouldn’t suspect her of murder?

‘I did think she look a bit bored at dinner, now that you mention it,’ said Gary. ‘Like she and Alex weren’t getting along. I think she was embarrassed to be there for some reason.’

Mark went _Oh!_ in remembrance. ‘I think I saw her at the reception this afternoon, talking to Meredith the maid when Gary and I was . . .’ he trailed off, and he suddenly became very aware of the condoms that were still inside his pocket.

**| _Julia_** _  
_ **|** _**Occupation:** victim’s girlfriend_

‘D’you know what Julia and Meredith were talking about?’ said Rob.

‘I – I wasn’t really paying attention, but it seemed like a very friendly conversation from where we was stood. Too friendly,’ Mark added ominously. He looked at Gary. ‘You saw them too, right?’

Gary shook his head and blushed. ‘I was too busy looking at you.’

‘Christ.’ This came from Howard.  
__  
**|** _**Motive:** relationship problems? Nb. Meredith might know more.  
_**| _Alibi:_** _none_

They added a couple of more names, like the two waiters who were present at the dining hall all evening and therefore could not have done it, and the hotel manager who had neither an alibi nor a motive. She seemed friendly enough though.

‘So now what?’ Gary said when they had exhausted their minds of potential murder suspects.

‘Yes, Rob, what do we do now?’ said Mark, repeating the utterance with much more zest than Gary.

‘We investigate,’ was Rob’s answer.

‘How?’

‘No, not just Howard, all of us.’

‘I mean, how will we investigate?’

Rob waved his pen at his mates. ‘Simple. Mark, Jay, Howard, you three talk to our suspects and ask them what they know. Especially Meredith, cos I reckon she might know more than she’s letting on. Gaz, you and I have a look round for evidence.’

And so the Take That Detective Agency was founded, with their first investigation to start first thing in the morning . . .


	4. Love Stories And Investigations

Gary slept badly that night. Before bedtime, Rob decided to tell the lads lurid tales about hotel murders he had once read about, and in his terror Gary frankly refused to walk the thirty-second journey back to his own room. They all ended up staying at Rob’s for the same reason, and they innocently slept in the same bed like they used to in the halcyon days of no. 37 chart positions and school assemblies, with Rob quickly ending up on the floor and Howard deciding to sleep in the bathtub because Jason snored terribly. Mark and Gary slept next to each other without touching.

Only when he awoke at six or seven in the morning to find his pillow stolen by Mark, Gary realised that he had been dreaming about Alex all night. In the dream, Alex’s impertinent comments were painfully hitting him over and over like heavy, incessant hailstones on a cloudy night until the hailstones turned into raindrops and the raindrops turned into blood that stained the carpet beneath his feet. Gary woke up with a start before the police officers in his dreams could cuff his bloodstained hands.

The room Gary woke up to was dark, with the curtains only letting in a faint airstrip of light from the traditional street lamps outside. Rob had moved from the floor to one of the chairs, one of his wrinkled shirts a substitute for a blanket. Jason was still snoring away at the other end of the bed. Howard was nowhere to be seen; taking a piss, probably. Mark was the one who looked most peaceful, with a pillow held in his arms as though he needed something to hold on to. The sight made Gary feel weirdly alone. Why was he the only one affected by this?

Feeling like Rob’s room was fast becoming too small for him in the aftermath of his dream, Gary got out of bed, kissed Mark on the forehead – which elicited a pleasant _mm_ , but didn’t wake him – and left the room. Having suddenly decided that he would have a quick go at one of the slot machines in the billiard room to get his mind off things, he carefully placed one foot on the carpet, paused at the floorboard’s first sign of a complaining squeak, then tiptoed down the hallway in fear of waking someone.

Gary had made it as far as the infamous staircase to the reception area when a door squeaked open on his right and he instinctively dove behind a vacant linen trolley in fear of being seen by the murderer. Out walked Meredith, the maid his co-workers had been chatting up and also featured in Robbie’s casebook, and a blonde waitress Gary vaguely recognised from dinner last night. They had conveniently stopped in front of Gary’s hiding place.

Although Gary hated the idea of taking this murder investigation into their own hands, pretending they were amateur sleuths instead of pop stars, he couldn’t help but listen for vital clues. Meredith _was_ on their list, after all . . .

‘You have to _tell_ her, Meredith,’ said the unknown waitress, her voice coming into focus as Gary held his breath and listened. ‘You owe her that much after all the things she’s been through.’

‘It’s not that simple, Angie,’ said Meredith. Gary could hear the fabric of her uniform rustle as if she had crossed her arms in defence.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Angie . . .’

‘I know I shouldn’t say this,’ said Angie the waitress, with a hurried tone to her voice as if she was afraid someone would indeed overhear them, ‘but it’s easier than ever now with that reviewer out of the way, God rest his soul. Why not make use of that?’

‘ _Angie_! I cannot _believe_ you,’ Meredith whispered. ‘You’ve been reading too many books, you have. You never did give me back that book I loaned you now that I think about it.’

‘I’m serious, Meredith. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To have him disappear out of your lives?’

‘That doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.’

‘Perhaps not, but I think we both know someone who did.’

A-ha!

Gary had gotten so excited at this potential revelation that he accidentally gasped very loudly!

Startled, the two ladies looked round them to see what had made the ghostly sound —

They shared a look and went to look for the source of the gasp, and so Gary waited, heart in throat, for the ladies to give up the search for him — if Meredith and Angie were somehow involved with the murder he could be killed right here — he might be strangled with a tablecloth or, worse, thrown down the stairs — he’d die a bloody virgin and never see Mark again and never even make it to his difficult third album —

He could feel the girls creep closer as a hand was stretched out towards his hiding place, but when the ladies finally decided to look behind the linen trolley, Gary had already magically disappeared.

It wasn’t until the maid and the waitress had ended their conversation in a hushed goodbye and gone their separate ways that Gary finally clambered out of the trolley smelling vaguely of fabric softener. His heart was beating harder than it had when he recorded a song for the first time or when he found out that _Pray_ had gone to number one, and he decided there and then that he was too old to be a part of the Take That Detective Agency.

In other words, he had really enjoyed that.

This was a bit of a clue, though, wasn’t it! Meredith was hiding something, and her friend didn’t even seem that distraught that Alex was murdered! Could the maid have something to do with it after all, and if so, what did she have to gain from it? Oh, what exciting possibilities this case held! The thought was absolutely invigorating, and so Gary continued on his merry way to the billiard room feeling really quite convinced that they may crack this case after all. He wasn’t in trouble. His nightmares of being arrested were just that, nightmares. None of it was real.  

Then he realised he’d gotten a bit lost. He was, in fact, miles away from the billiard room; he’d been so busy coming up with theories in his head that he had taken a wrong turning and ended up in front of a small staircase that led to the first floor.

It was also the staircase that Alex had been murdered in front of.

That’s when Gary decided to check out the murder scene.

A million different things ran through Gary’s mind as he slowly ascended the stairs. Would there still be traces of blood on the carpet? Would the murder scene be curtained off with fluorescent yellow tape, shielding the awful memory from onlookers’ eyes? Would Gary feel the same nausea that he felt when he recognised the body from a distance? Would he be able to find anything significant at all? (He _was_ only halfway there; he could still turn back round and decide he didn’t want to have anything to do with this investigation. Sleuthing was for detectives and police inspectors, not people like him!)

But when he reached the top of the stairs seven seconds later, Gary felt nothing at all.

The entire area looked spotless. There was no body. No blood. No yellow tape or evidence markers; absolutely nothing. It was as if the murder had never even happened, and for a moment Gary wondered whether he had dreamed it all up in sheer stress and anxiety. The only sign that something had indeed occurred at all came in the shape of his youngest bandmate, unashamedly kneeling on the floor and looking underneath the carpet to see if the inspectors had missed anything.

‘Hiya Gaz,’ Rob said without looking up from the floor when he felt Gary’s presence. He picked up a tiny piece of paper, then discarded it with a disinterested look when he didn’t think it an important piece of evidence. He soon moved on to the wall on his left.

‘Hullo,’ said Gary. He watched Rob almost take apart the wood panelling on the wall with his bare hands for a moment, then added, ‘So, er, you said you wanted me to help you look for evidence?’

Rob decided that hiding the murder weapon near the scene of the crime was perhaps a tad amateurish and gave up his perusal of the wall. He got up from the floor and wiped his hands on his trousers.

‘ _Hm_. I did, didn’t I?’ said Rob slowly, looking as if there was something that he had to tell Gary but couldn’t remember what. The dark circles underneath his eyes gave the impression that he’d had about as much sleep as Gary. (Mulling over his list of suspects, no doubt.)

‘Oh, hang on,’ Rob said to himself in remembrance, and he retrieved a folded piece of paper from one of his trouser pockets. It was a badly drawn map of the corridor and its aligning rooms, with the names of each guest added to almost every door: “Gaz”, “Markie”, “Some old lady”, “The American businessman”, and so on. On the back, there was a similar drawing of the dining hall. To Gary, it looked absolutely incomprehensible.

‘Okay, so I made a map of the hotel this morning, all right,’ Rob explained, ‘and I’ve . . . well, I’ve learned absolutely nothing new to be honest, but I think this room _‘ere_ ,’ – he pointed at the only door on the map without a name added next to it, then nodded at the corresponding door that he and Gary were standing in front of – ‘I reckon that’s the victim’s room. And Julia’s. I checked.’

‘O—kay?’ said Gary, nodding slowly but not really understanding the significance of all this. How was this going to help them solve the murder?

‘Notice anything?’ said Rob.

‘About what?’

Rob pointed his thumb at the door.

Gary squinted. He didn’t really see anything specific; it was just a door. It had the number 42 engraved in a serif font. Jason’s room was next door. ‘I see nothing, to be honest,’ he offered cluelessly.

‘Exactly!’ Rob cried, giving the impression that it was the one answer he had been anticipating. ‘You see, Watson, it’s not curtained off _,_ ’ he whispered. ‘Nothing here is.’

Gary frowned. That _did_ seem odd. ‘But Alex – the victim –was _murdered_ in front of his own room. He was lying right here,’ he added, his voice cracking mid-sentence as his mind flashed back to the events of last night. ‘That would make his room part of the crime scene, that would. _Wouldn’t it_?’

‘Indeed, my resplendent assistant,’ said Rob, in his best Private Detective Voice that he had learned from watching too many shows like _Poirot_ and _Columbo_ in hotel rooms around the world. ‘It raises many questions, doesn’t it?’  

Gary curiously motioned his hand for Rob to continue. ‘Such as?’

‘Dunno yet, but it’s next on me to-do list,’ Rob said in his normal voice. He added something illegible to his map before putting the ill-treated piece of paper back into his pocket and starting a monologue that Gary took little effort to listen to. ‘What I don’t get, though, Gaz, why would the police clean the crime scene so quickly if they’re so keen on solving the case? Are they not as “experienced” as they look? Were they forced to get rid of the evidence by hotel staff?’ He frowned and stroked his chin like he thought a true detective would in this sort of situation. ‘I mean, the hotel manager did look a bit shifty yesterday but that’s probably cos she don’t wanna ruin her hotel’s reputation . . .’

Not pleased with this chain of thoughts, Rob tried another theory. ‘Could the inspectors have some kinda hidden agenda that we haven’t discovered yet? Are they . . . in on it?’

‘That’s a bit far-fetched, though, that,’ said Gary, who was straining to keep his eyes open. ‘This isn’t a story in one of your detective novels.’

Rob ignored that last comment and brandished his pen at Gary like a magic wand. ‘D’you know what I reckon, though, Gaz?’

‘No?’

‘I bet those two inspectors haven’t even been through Alex’s stuff yet, if you know what I mean.’

 _Haven’t even been through Alex’s stuff yet_? Gary didn’t like where this was going at all.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Gary, whose heart had skipped a beat in the fear that Rob was about to suggest they do something very illegal.

Rob looked round him, then wriggled his eyebrows in a rather suggestive manner. ‘No one’s ‘ere, you know.’

‘But —’

‘We’ll be in and out, like ghosts.’

‘But —’

‘I just wanna see if there’s something important.’

‘But we can’t just — hang on, Bob, what’s —’ he broke off when Rob went over to Alex’s door, key in hand, and actually unlocked it!

Much to Gary’s absolute horror, Rob proceeded to push the door open challengingly. One foot was already inside the room.

‘Oh come _on_ ,’ Rob said when he saw Gary’s blanched face, ‘it’s not as if someone’s gonna walk in on us ‘aving a peek at the reviewer’s stuff! This is exciting, Gaz! Adventurers, you and me!’

‘B-but what about Julia?’ Gary stuttered.

He didn’t like this idea. Not one bit.

‘The girlfriend? She’s ‘aving breakfast, _d’oh_. I asked How to keep her “occupied”, if you know what I mean.’

Gary blinked. ‘Breakfast? It’s that time already?’

‘Course. C’mon Gaz, you know you want to,’ Rob said teasingly. ‘Or d’you wanna be arrested for a murder you didn’t commit? I’ll tell Mark he’ll ‘ave to find a different boyfriend, then, shall I? Your choice.’

Gary looked round him in trepidation. It’s true, he _was_ in great danger of becoming the inspectors’ main suspect – something he might be able to reverse if he found a piece of evidence that pointed at someone else –, and he _had_ quite enjoyed the thrill of overhearing two potential suspects, but this was breaking the rules! Danger! Getting arrested for trespassing as well as murder! How bad was he going to look if he was caught going through the victim’s things? He’d be handcuffed and sent to jail straight away!

(Then again, had he not broken a million rules by just being with Mark? Was this not the same thing?)

(Except with less kissing.)

(And more murder.)

‘Oh all right,’ said Gary, accepting Rob’s challenge without further demur, ‘but if I end up in jail I’m never letting you sing on one of me songs ever again.’

Rob smiled smugly to himself. ‘Can’t resist, eh?’ he said, two feet now firmly on the red carpet tiles in the late reviewer’s room. ‘You’ll be back with your boyfriend in a minute, I promise.’

In a reflex Gary almost said _He’s not my boyfriend_ , then pressed his lips together when his mind flashed back to last night’s coming out. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually admitted it; had this murder not taken place, Gary would probably have kept his sexuality secret until the end of time, and he and Mark would still have been restrained to kissing in hotel rooms and dirty toilets at petrol stations whenever they were within a two-mile radius of their co-workers. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all.

‘Follow me, Watson.’

Gary did so and closed the door behind him after shooting a quick glance down both ends of the corridor. They weren’t being watched. ‘Where _is_ Mark, anyway?’

‘Talking to potential suspects with Howard and Jay, isn’t he? Were you even listenin’ last night?’

‘It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.’

There was the sound of a switch being flicked. Gary blinked at the bright opaque white chandelier that flickered on, and he took a moment to get his bearings while Rob immediately dropped all the room-searching techniques he’d learned from his books and started towards his first goal of the morning: a writing desk littered with documents that no doubt held innumerable secrets.

Alex’s room was worlds removed from the boys’. While the band’s separate rooms were still well within four-star comforts, they weren’t really that lavishly decorated. They weren’t even _that_ comfortable, really. (Mark’s bed in particular was quite squeaky.) But Alex’s room, with its myriad of drawers and cabinets that might hold vital evidence, was the _zenith_ of showing off. The bed was truly king-size and covered entirely with embroidered pillows and appliqué sheets. The sand brown chairs looked comfortable and inviting. The beige wool rug at the end of the bed would feel soft to anyone’s feet. There was even a balcony that overlooked the green maze and courtyard, and it soon became apparent that Alex had been given the most expensive, sybaritic suite in the hotel.

Outside, things looked a little less beautiful. The weather was still frightful. A branch whipped against one of the room’s windows, creating ominous background music. The storm showed no signs of abating, and for a moment Gary wondered — could the murder weapon — but then Rob gave a holler, and Gary’s train of thought disappeared from his mind.

‘Found something?’ said Gary.

‘Dunno. Maybe,’ said an uncertain sounding Rob. He was holding the notebook that Alex had with him in the dining hall, the one that naively made Mark think the victim must’ve been a songwriter. Rob was flipping through it. ‘It’s just full of notes and reviews. Like, first drafts and so on. Some of them aren’t even about music.

In all the detective films Gary had watched with his mates, the token room search was usually done in quite a quick, aggressive manner; drawers would often be torn open, floorboards destroyed, insignificant papers torn apart. Thankfully Rob appeared to show more respect for the victim’s room than the characters from their television sets, so Gary – still unsure what to look for, really – decided to open a glass cabinet in the same gentle manner. There was nothing there apart from a wide collection of wine glasses. He quietly closed its doors and moved on to the next cabinet. Same story. He reckoned it’d be easier if he actually knew something about Alex and his potential enemies, but then again that was perhaps the point of this entire exercise. Find out more about him. Rule out suspects, and by all means rule out himself.

‘Does it say anything about us, that notebook?’ said Gary.

Rob paused at a page filled with handwritten facts about a band more credible than Take That, then carefully put the notebook back where he found it. It was absolutely useless. ‘Just that we’re the least heterosexual band in the world,’ he joked. ‘Remember when Nige sat us all down and told us he’s, well, you know? I thought you were gonna jump up and tell us your life story then. Does he know?’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

In the conversation’s pause, Gary considered the question he’d been wanting to ask since last night. ‘You knew, didn’t you? About me and Mark?’

Rob absently traced his finger along the grain of the writing desk’s wood. For a moment, he wondered if the desk could contain a secret drawer or storage space where vital documents were kept . . . Then again, Rob thought a second later, why would the victim keep important things here at all? Was he not on holiday like the rest of the guests? Why would he feel the need to use his notebook and write? Or — could there be more to Alex’s visit to the hotel? Was there something they weren’t seeing?

‘ _Rob_?’

‘Sorry, yeah. I did.’

Gary gently pushed the glass doors of a third cabinet shut. ‘How?’

‘It’s hard not to, you’re always lookin’ at each other like you want to —’ Rob broke off, and changed his wording to make it sound less crude. ‘Like Mark’s the only person in the room. Which is _fine_ , you know, it’s all great and romantic and all that, but, well, you weren’t very discreet about it _._ ’

‘What do you mean?’

‘– _cough_ – Berlin – _cough_ – , ’ Rob explained in a fit of pretend coughs.

Gary had gone so red that his face almost matched the ornament on one of the bedside cabinets. No-one was supposed to know about what had happened in Berlin. Ever. ‘You _noticed_?’

‘I’m not blind, Gaz.’

Gary opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again when he realised he had been rendered speechless.

Rob knew about Berlin. _Berlin._

Needing a reason to turn away so Rob wouldn’t see his flushed face, Gary proceeded to show a sudden interest in one of the room’s many drawers.

Empty.

The next drawer he tried contained only a small pile of empty writing paper. The one after that, also nothing.

What were they supposed to find?

‘Remind me, Bob, what’re we looking for here?’ Gary asked his mate after he had spent some time searching for clues underneath the bed, keen not to talk about that Thing That Had Happened In Berlin.

‘Just anything that sheds more light on the victim, really,’ Rob said. He was busy inspecting the contents of a metal trash bin. There wasn’t much in there apart from a couple of balled up pieces of writing that meant nothing to a non-journalist like Rob. He went on, ‘It’d be dead useful if we found some sort of threatening letter or something.’

‘Speaking of, I may have  accidentally overheard a conversation earlier,’ Gary remembered, and he went on to tell Rob what he had found out, about the maid perhaps being involved after all, and the waitress not being all too distraught that something bad had happened right under their noses. The entire time, Rob’s mouth was wide open in a silent scream of amazement. His bandmate was learning fast! ‘Do you think it’s relevant?’ Gary asked when he was finished.

‘It does sound a bit like the maid knew the victim personally, doesn’t it?’

‘ _And_ Julia. Mark mentioned she and Meredith looked too friendly, didn’t he? Perhaps the three of them were friends and got into an argument, and then Meredith killed Julia’s boyfriend for . . . reasons.’

‘Meredith was in the dining hall, though, remember? She can’t’ve done it cos I was chatting her up.’

Gary scratched the back of his head. ‘Her friend the waitress, then. The murder took place _after_ dinner, and she had the means to grab a knife from the kitchen.’

‘What’s the waitress look like? Blonde? Attractive?’

‘Er . . .’

‘Like, curly blonde hair? Sort of tall? Big nose?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘She’s not the murderer either, she was still cleaning the tables long after you’d left.’

Gary swore. ‘Then why did she act like her mate had something to gain from the murder? If those two didn’t do it, then —’

Rob pointed his finger at the ceiling. ‘There must be a third person involved!’

‘Yes!’

Rob made an impressed face. ‘Very good, Watson. Did you find anything underneath the bed?’

‘Nothing, no.’

Rob absently upended a jewellery box that he guessed belonged to the victim’s girlfriend. He didn’t know much about jewellery, but he could tell there were several thousands of pounds worth of necklaces and bracelets in there. For a moment he even considered the possibility of Alex having been killed for his money, but he quickly decided that was a preposterous idea. After all, everyone here was rich. ‘Can I ask you somethin’, Gaz?’

Gary stopped what he was doing. ‘Not if it has to do with _Berlin_ , you can’t.’

‘It doesn’t, promise.’ When Gary wisely said nothing, Rob went on, ‘How’d you get together? You and Mark, I mean? Did you always know you were, you know, _gay_?’

Gary groaned.

‘Sorry, is that a stupid question?’

‘A little bit.’

‘Did you, though?’

Gary’s chest rose in a deep sigh. This is what he and Mark had been warning each other for: the awkward questions. The scrutiny. The odd looks from colleagues. Not being able to do what they wanted because every single person around them questioned it. Judged it. People would no doubt talk, and one moment or another an anecdote would turn into a story and that story would soon blossom into a rumour in a newspaper.

He didn’t know what he’d do if that every happened.

‘Sorry, mate. Pretend I asked,’ Rob muttered. He had turned a little red in anticipation of an answer, and wrongly mistook Gary’s silence for frustration. He was about to drop the question by turning to an unsearched cupboard when Gary spoke:

‘I didn’t, to be honest, no. Know, I mean,’ said Gary. ‘It just sort of happened, really.’

‘When?’

‘First time I saw him.’

Rob looked impressed. ‘That’s when you knew?’

‘I guess so, yeah. Mark, he, er . . . he walked into auditions wearing _the_ sexiest outfit I’d ever seen, and . . . God, I dunno, I just felt butterflies, really.’ Gary placed his hand on his tummy, right below his ribs. That’s where he always felt his feelings for Mark. Right there. ‘But it was weird as well, cos Mark was a boy and I’d never really thought about boys like that, so . . .’

‘So you tried to ignore it.’

‘Yeah. I mean, I had to, hadn’t I? This is me career we’re talking about. If I turned out to be — _that_ , then it would mess a lot of things up. In _my_ mind, anyway.’

‘So what did you do?’

Gary told Rob that he went on to assume that his strange feelings for Mark – a _boy_! – had just been a momentary moment of madness brought on by the sheer newness of being in a boy band and tried to forget about the butterflies as best as he could. He just needed to get laid, that was all. There was nothing real about the fantasies in his head. Boys were silly, and so was he for thinking that Mark was anything more than a co-worker he’d soon forget about again.

People like him just didn’t fancy people like Mark, simple as. Gary liked girls and tits and skirts and all the other things that girls had that he couldn’t remember when he was desperately trying to talk himself out of liking his bandmate. Girls were beautiful, boys weren’t. Appreciating both was impossible. (He hadn’t even _noticed_ how cute Mark’s nose was, honestly.) At the end of the day he was probably just jealous of Mark for having a much sexier body than him and having really, really good hair. It had nothing to do with _that other thing_.

Then he saw Mark again in rehearsals a couple of weeks later, performing. Hoo, boy.

Nigel had asked the boys to rehearse a dance routine for an up-tempo number that Gary had written two weeks previously, and Gary could hardly concentrate with the sight of Mark’s lips constantly touching his microphone every – time – he – sang. (Also, bum wiggling. Lots of it.) It looked bloody _pornographic_ , and Gary hoped to God that the images that were suddenly flooding his mind – very, very bad images – were just temporary.

Even then, Gary was absolutely _convinced_ that he’d see a pretty bird at a gig next week and be cured of his lewd thoughts. It’d be as if nothing had happened. He might even find a girlfriend among their small group of fans and be very happy and straight indeed, but of course that never happened.

The next week of rehearsals, Mark showed up in a sleeveless shirt. With a guitar.

It all went downhill from there, really, especially when Mark then smiled at him and turned his insides into a gooey mush. Gary didn’t think that was a thing that could actually happen outside of movies.

The more Gary saw of Mark – in rehearsals, but also in private –, the more things he saw that he really, really, really, really, really, really liked about his bandmate: the way Mark played the guitar, with those small, pretty hands of his; his bum, sort of pert and round and really nice to stare at (especially when they played pool, and Mark would sort of, you _know_ ); his flat stomach; his hair, sometimes short and sometimes a bit longer but always super sexy whenever it fell over his eyes . . .

(Not to mention the nose ring he got later.)

(Gary didn’t tell Robbie that.)

But more important was how much Gary liked being with Mark regardless of how he looked; Mark was kind and funny and oh so patient, and most of all a clever lad who knew a lot about music: music that Gary didn’t particularly like, perhaps, but interesting nonetheless.

Their shared love for a good tune made Mark the easiest person to strike up a conversation with by far. During the early, early days of the band’s beginnings, Gary would shy away from everyone else and quietly sit in a corner or hotel room, writing or staring at Mark. He didn’t need anyone else, not really. He’d be a part of this band for a couple of years and move on to the next project.  

Then his feelings for Mark became irreversible, and along with it came the need to stay.

Slowly but surely, Gary stopped dreading going to rehearsals. He even began to look forward to them. Early morning starts were a little less bad because he could spend them chatting with Mark about the latest Pet Shop Boys song that they both liked, and long car journeys spent on the backseat with Mark were a _joy_ as long as he didn’t have to talk about his feelings. His feelings were the only thing Gary didn’t understand.

A year into the band’s existence, a small crush had fast become a big crush, and there soon came a moment when being satisfied with just staring and talking turned into more. Gary wanted to be with Mark and do whatever boyfriends did, period. That is, if Mark swung that way too; like most people in love, Gary had taken Mark’s kind smiles and comments and hand-holding to mean that Mark was absolutely in love with him too — but what if his mind was just making things up? Mark could be the straightest person around for all he knew.

Rob opened a drawer with a lot of socks in it, then closed it again. (And opened it again because he hadn’t been looking properly.)

‘So did you ask Markie out then?’

‘God no,’ Gary huffed. ‘I’m too much of a coward, me. It’s always Mark who initiates these things, to be honest. When we went on our first date in Manchester everything was arranged by him, flowers and music and everything.’

Rob looked up. ‘When was this?’

‘Dunno. Couple of months ago, I think. T’was after we did that bonkers interview on that radio station for kids. Me and Mark ran away after.’

‘Cheeky.’

They both moved on from the useless sock drawers and decided to open the expensive opaque wardrobe. There wasn’t much in it apart from a bunch of bespoke suits and some ladies’ shoes, and Gary made a face when he spotted a godawful white suit in a corner. It looked like the sort of thing the boys were once forced to wear at an awards ceremony when they were still new and unable to afford a proper stylist.

Rob looked at the wardrobe’s contents as if making some sort of mental note. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that someone who wrote album reviews could afford this stuff?’ he posed. ‘I mean, it don’t pay much, journalism.’

‘Dunno. Maybe he was rich. He did look posh, him.’

‘ _Hm_ ,’ said Rob, clearly not satisfied with that answer but not feeling like pushing it further. He closed the wardrobe again. ‘So what happened then? Between you and Markie?’

‘You’re gonna laugh if you hear this, mate.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I, er, I wrote him a letter, I did. Right here.’

‘You mean at the hotel? In — May, was it?’

‘Yeah.’

A faraway look glazed over Gary’s eyes. It must have been a good memory, and it was; sometimes Gary’s mind would hop back to that day when Mark had first kissed him, in the middle of that precious verdant maze, and he’d feel better and warmer than he had all week. He still fed off that moment, day in day out.

‘Don’t leave me hangin’, Gaz. Go on.’

Gary went on to explain that he had come up with a long list of ways to tell Mark that he loved him – telling him outright, serenading him, telling Rob to tell Howard to tell Mark – but, in the end, the only thing he felt remotely comfortable with was putting it in a love song. When said love song turned out to be too mediocre to reach his crush’s ears (it never even made their second album), Gary changed it into a letter; a letter that, a couple of hours later, was shoved underneath Mark’s door at ten in the evening.

‘Mark didn’t even talk to me the next morning,’ Gary huffed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the writing desk when they had completely exhausted the room of potential pieces of evidence. ‘I thought he hated me for what I’d admitted. Mind you, I wouldn’t have blamed him; I don’t know what I’d have done if someone dropped that bombshell on me.’

‘I remember that day,’ said Rob, giving up the search too. ‘You and Markie hardly talked at breakfast. I thought you was just tired or somethin’. What’d the letter say?’

Gary rubbed his nose. ‘The usual stuff, really. That I loved him and that I couldn’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah. It was really dramatic; I think I was half-drunk when I wrote it to be honest. We lost the letter as well, so God knows what kind of trouble we’d be in if someone found it.’ Gary paused, then shook his head as though an odd thought had occurred to him and he wanted to get rid of it. He went on, ‘Anyway, I convinced meself that he probably hadn’t even read it, and I just tried to forget about it, really. I thought, maybe if he hasn’t read it I can still go back and steal the envelope and pretend that I don’t fancy him. It’d be better than losing him, you know?’

Those were always the thoughts that kept him up at night, this paranoid idea that Mark would feel uncomfortable being around him because of what he was and wanted. For a while, that fear was the only thing Gary ever thought of.

‘But then we went into that maze, all five of us.’ Gary nodded at the window, its surface an ever-changing flow of descending drops of rain. Beyond, they could still make out the green shape of the maze. ‘That’s when he told me.’

Rob uttered a penny-dropping _oh!_ ‘I did think you looked odd when I caught up with ya.’

After a sweaty, out-of-breath Mark then arrived in the middle of the maze second, right after Gary, he quickly looked round him and ordered Gary to sit down. Gary, of course, did as he was told, and his heart pretty much dropped into his tummy when Mark said that he’d read the letter after all.

‘I thought, this is it,’ Gary told Rob, not without a flair of theatrics. ‘Mark’s not gonna want to have anything to do with me anymore. And then he said —’

Gary was so overwhelmed by the bright sun and the fountain and the doves and the feeling of anxiety and hope and everything in between and of course Mark’s _hair_ , so disheveled and messy and sweaty, that he could no longer remember what Mark said. He no longer remembered the rasped ‘You could’ve told me a bit earlier, Gaz’ or even his own response, but he did remember what followed. That gentle asking of permission. That first, hesitating moment of intimacy. Eyes half-open, half-closed. The sensation of Mark’s soft, tender lips on his. The smell of Mark’s shampoo that polluted his thoughts. Then the fingertips that trailed gently up Gary’s bare arms. The waterfall of bad thoughts when Gary let his hands slip underneath the hem of Mark’s red shirt because he simply couldn’t stop himself. (Mark didn’t seem to mind.)

It was nothing he thought their first kiss would be like, but everything he needed.

‘I don’t know what would’ve happened if you guys hadn’t then shown up, to be honest,’ Gary admitted. ‘That kiss was something else.’

‘What’s it like, then?’ Rob asked a little bluntly. ‘You know, to _be_ with a boy? Like, with sex? Is it good, or —’

Gary almost knocked over the vase on the writing desk by accident. ‘Er, I — um — God, I don’t know yet,’ he stammered. He discreetly took a step away from the writing desk in case he knocked over more objects in his embarrassment. His face had gone bright red. ‘W-we were in the middle of — of finding out when Alex was murdered.’

Rob’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. _Shit_.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So you haven’t —‘

‘No.’

‘Not even with —’

‘No.’

‘ _Wow_.’

Not knowing how to fill the awkward silence that followed, Rob and Gary both decided to stare out of the window until they came up with something else to say. Deep pools of muddy water were dotted around the hotel grounds. The courtyard that usually hummed with activity was empty, and with the rain still showing no signs of letting up, Gary couldn’t see how they would ever leave this place unscathed, if at all. How could this hotel once have been the place where he and Mark first kissed?

Rob cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry for asking you those questions, Gaz,’ he said without looking at Gary. ‘I realise how hard this must be.’

‘Don’t worry about it, mate,’ Gary said with an air-clearing wave of his hand. ‘To be hon—’

Gary broke off mid-sentence when he heard footsteps.

Someone was approaching!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am taking a break from this fic for a couple of weeks. Please stay tuned. ♥


	5. What You're Doing Here Is Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story so far: someone was murdered while Mark and Gary were trying to have sex for the first time. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, Gary is now the inspector's main suspect. Will the Take That boys be able to prove his innocence on time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people really wanted me to update this, but life and other fandoms got in the way. I hope this and the next chapters make up for my absence! Thanks for all the love and comments so far. ♥

‘ _The bed_ ,’ Rob hissed, and he and Gary hurriedly crawled underneath the bed right before the door squeaked open and was closed again. Shuffling feet announced the arrival of the man or woman who could quite possibly be the murderer, and Gary took such a deep, nervous breath that he accidentally inhaled quite a lot of dust. If someone were to write a review about this hotel, they might not think very highly of its cleanliness!

In the low gap between the floor and the underside of the bed that was the boys’ only vantage, they could vaguely make out a pair of expensive black boots similar to the ones they had spotted in the wardrobe. They trotted away from the door and stopped right in front of the writing desk.

‘Julia’, Rob mouthed, and Gary nodded to show that he agreed. His face was contorted in a rather unattractive attempt to keep his approaching sneeze in rather than out.

There was the sound of a piece of paper being folded open.

‘I guess I won’t be needing this anymore,’ said Julia, the girlfriend of the late reviewer. She sounded like she’d perked up considerably. She tore up the piece of paper into a million little pieces with a lot of effort, and Rob could faintly hear its remains land into the metal trash can. What could she possibly be disposing of? ‘Farewell, my lover,’ Julia went on theatrically, almost as if she were rehearsing a very melodramatic play, ‘if only our end had come in a different way . . .’

_“If only our end had come in a different way?”_ thought Rob quizzically, wishing he had kept his casebook with him rather than giving it to his interrogating bandmates, _Could she indeed have something to do with the murder?_

Gary breathed out again when Julia’s feet moved away from the writing desk. She was finally leaving, and she would have opened the door and headed back to the dining hall if not for the sudden, inherently female premonition that something was very off about her room indeed.

‘Now that’s odd,’ she said softly to herself, ‘I thought I’d left my bag on the floor, not on the _bed_ . . .’

Gary remembered with a pang that he’d rudely searched Julia’s bag and not put it back in the same place, and he and Rob shared a worried look that evoked the same, simple thought: what if Julia had done it? What if they were only seconds away from being killed in cold blood? Julia might find out they had been through her stuff, and, and — her boots stopped in front of the bed, feet only an arm’s length away from Rob’s head —

You know when you’re in a hotel room and you feel like there’s someone there, a sort of ghostly presence or former guest perhaps, and you want to check underneath the bed to make sure you aren’t about to be killed in your sleep but _can’t_? That‘s what Gary was feeling like right now, in reverse. Like every moment Julia was going to pull him from underneath the bed and stab him. Repeatedly.

Then someone knocked on the door.

‘Come on in,’ Julia hollered a bit distractedly. Having decided she must be imagining things, she stepped away from the bed, opened the door, and greeted whoever was at the other side. It was a woman, but one whose voice the boys didn’t recognise. A member of staff, presumably.

‘I’m so sorry, er, Miss, but — you see, the police inspectors request your assistance with — I’m so sorry, Miss, I did tell them . . .’

‘Of course,’ said Julia, in a voice that sounded exaggeratedly adult. ‘Lead the way,’ she said, and Gary sneezed in a rather undignified manner the moment Julia had definitely gone and closed the door.

Once they had crawled from underneath the bed and dusted themselves off, Rob immediately resumed his activities as Head Detective and soon became too preoccupied with upending the trash bin to take much notice to Gary sneezing again — and again. (And again.) His face lit up when he found Julia’s torn pieces of paper on the floor, and he started laying them out and putting them back together like a diminutive paper puzzle.

When the puzzle was complete, the hopelessness that Gary had hitherto felt disappeared; Rob was absolutely beaming with aplomb. He had Discovered Something!

‘What does it say?’ said Gary, anticipation colouring his voice. The joy on Rob’s face was rather contagious. Could this finally be the piece of evidence that they needed to prove that Gary had not killed anyone?

‘It’s a letter,’ Rob said conspiratorially. ‘From Julia to Alex.’ He paused for effect, then added with emphasis, ‘Saying that she wants to break up with him.’

‘Oh? _Oh_. I see.’ (Gary didn’t see.) ‘Um?’

‘Think about it, Gaz,’ Rob explained with great enthusiasm, ‘perhaps Alex read the letter and got really possessive and didn’t want his bird to break up with ‘im so she got desperate and offed ‘im instead! It makes perfect sense!’

Gary wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘She could have just left, though, that Julia,’ he suggested. ‘Killing your boyfriend cos he doesn’t agree with splitting up seems a bit dramatic, doesn’t it? Especially if they once loved each other, which they must’ve. And who’s to say that Alex read the break-up letter, anyway? Perhaps he never got the chance. He did _die_ , Bob.’

‘Nah. I bet Alex was one of those manipulative lads you keep ‘earing about on the news.’ Rob nodded at the wardrobe. ‘It would explain those expensive suits, if you know what I mean. Paid for ‘em with Julia’s money.’

‘Now you’re just making things up.’

‘I don’t hear _you_ coming up with theories.’

‘It doesn’t excuse murder, though, the things you said. _Does_ it?’

Rob shrugged. ‘People have killed for less.’

Gary sighed like a man out of his depth. Part of him wanted to share Rob’s enthusiasm, but at the same time he couldn’t help but be sceptical. They _were_ just amateurs; it’s not as if they actually knew what they were doing by randomly going through trash cans and spying on people. Real inspectors and detectives had to train years to be at Sherlock Holmes’ level. ‘I’ll be honest, mate, I’m confused,’ he finally admitted. ‘I mean, if we’ve really found the murderer so soon I’m thrilled, but it just doesn’t add up, this letter. Something’s off, I’m telling you.’

Ignoring that final comment, Rob got up from the floor and rather unprofessionally decided to shove the tiny pieces of letter into his pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I bet the boys will’ve discovered something too,’ he said. ‘Shed some more light on the situation and everything. C’mon, let’s go find ‘em.’

Before Gary could tell Rob that he was perhaps getting a bit ahead of himself, Rob had already stalked out of the room, told Gary to close the door, walked down the stairs, entered the now empty reception area, taken a right turn, then left, nearly bumped into Angie the waitress on her way to the kitchen, and joined the others in an area Gary had only been once, six months ago: the billiard room. 

_The_ billiard room, where Gary came up with the idea of writing Mark a love letter. In the corner of the room there was a small bar that served alcoholic drinks that were _so_ good that they ought to be prohibited (part of the reason why Gary decided to write the letter in the first place; lovelorn background music and _lots_ of alcohol), and in front of that there was a small lounge where only cool people sat. Overall the room was dark and murky: perfect for top secret meetings of the recently founded Take That Detective Agency.

When Gary finally joined Mark, Robbie, Howard, and Jason at one of the pool tables, he was panting out of sheer fatigue and excitement. Nobody told him being a detective was going to be this exhausting!  

Rob took on his role as the handsome leader of the Take That Detective Agency and addressed his colleagues while Gary tried to catch his breath. ‘ _And_?’

‘And what?’ said Howard, who looked as tired as Gary felt. (Kept awake by Jason’s sawing snoring, no doubt.) Gary felt like taking a nap on the floor by just looking at him.

‘Have you discovered anything?’

‘Not really, to be honest,’ Mark shrugged before handing Rob back his casebook. They had added very little. Clearly having just played a game of pool to pass the time in between unrehearsed interviews with suspects, Mark was still holding a cue stick in his right hand. It made Gary think terrible things. ‘Everyone’s really suspicious, though. Like they’re all hidin’ something.’

‘Everyone’s hiding _something_ , Mark,’ noted Jason, with a furtive glance at Gary. He sipped the organic juice that he had asked the barman to make and closed his eyes as if in meditation. Judging by the expression on his face, the drink was absolutely delicious. Howard thought it looked like dog piss that had been put into a dirty blender.

Jason’s glance went over Gary’s head. ‘What do you mean, everyone’s suspicious?’ he said, his heart rate increasing in the knowledge that he and Rob almost certainly knew something that their bandmates didn’t. Could Rob be right about Julia after all? Was she the murderer? ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The American businessman whom Mark suggested almost refused to talk to us,’ said Jason, ‘and when we decided to ask him where he was yesterday he got quite defensive, didn’t he? I think he even threatened to run us over with his supercar. Mind you,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘he wasn’t the only one who was acting strange.’

Mark nodded. He put away the cue stick and quasi-casually leaned on the pool table before corroborating Jason’s statement. He raised some very interesting points, but Gary was hardly listening; his mind had momentarily been clouded by the image of Mark playing pool, body bent over just so, trousers down to his ankles . . . The image was so provocative that Gary completely blocked out Mark’s retelling of his run-in with the demure hotel manager that morning. Like the businessman, she too was showing odd behaviour.

‘Odd how?’ said Rob.

‘Dunno. Just odd. Same with the victim’s girlfriend.’

At this, Rob’s interest was piqued. He looked round him before saying, ‘How was she?’

‘She just didn’t seem that put-out by it all, really,’ Jason explained. ‘Like she never even loved the guy.’

A member of staff complained that if the boys weren’t using the billiard table they should beat it, so the boys quietly moved into the lounge and continued their second ever meeting of the Take That Detective Agency there. In the meantime, Jason ordered another non-alcoholic drink that had the same colour of grass that had been chewed on and spit out by a cow.

Rob repeated the question. ‘How was she? The girlfriend?’

Mark, Howard, and Jason all looked at each other as if they had a secret that they were reluctant to share. Were they doing the right thing to talk about other people’s lives and emotions so candidly or was it simply necessary given the circumstances?

Mark decided to go for the latter. He looked over his shoulder to find the room entirely devoid of eavesdroppers, then noted: ‘I think she almost seemed relieved that Alex had died. When we spoke to her this morning she didn’t even, you know, _cry_. She was a completely different person compared to last night.’

‘Like she faked fainting yesterday?’ Gary suggested. Again, that raised heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline. The knowledge that perhaps – perhaps – Julia wasn’t struck down by grief because she was the _killer_.

‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘It’s just odd, isn’t it? I mean, if _you_ died I’d be beside meself, Gary.’

‘Trust me, mate, I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You better not, you’re the sexiest boyfriend I’ve ever had.’

‘Hang on, Marko, what does that mean? You told me you’ve—’

Rob cleared his throat to interrupt the lovebirds’ conversation before too much information was let out into the world. ‘That’s not all,’ he began, apropos of nothing. He cast a glance at the breath of the billiard room, then he laid out and put together the scathing letter he had found earlier. When the puzzle was complete only mere seconds later, he smugly looked at his co-workers until they too realised the meaning of the message.   

‘But . . . how did you . . .’ Mark trailed off, flabbergasted.

‘This makes her the perfect suspect!’ said Howard, in awe of Rob’s unparalleled detective skills too.

‘I can’t believe it, Rob; you actually did it!’ said Jason.

‘Impressive, lads.’ This came from Julia herself.

Upon finding out that Julia was standing right next to them, Rob quickly covered the letter with a drinks menu and almost knocked over the table in the process. They had been caught! Their meeting was compromised! They were about to be brutally and publically killed!

Howard gave the suspect a threatening once-over, but Julia laughed it off with adult demeanour. ‘Oh come on, you can’t surely believe _I_ did it?’ said she, clearly not at all threatened by these amateur sleuths but amused by them as if they were mere children. ‘Remind me, did you even ask for my – what’s the word – alibi earlier?’

This was directed at Mark, Howard, and Jason, who trembled in their seats as they realised that they should perhaps have taken their pursuit of the murderer a bit more seriously. Finding his drink suddenly insipid in these dreary circumstances, Jason put it back on the table in front of their black sofas and decided not to look his bandmates in the eye. Mark’s face had flushed red in shame.

‘You can’t be serious, lads!’ Rob exclaimed. He could not _believe_ how unprofessional his co-workers were being; had they not even begin to imagine what would happen if the inspectors truly believed Gary had done it? He’d be arrested and locked away forever! ‘You didn’t ask for her alibi?’

‘We got distracted!’ said Howard.

‘By what?’

The question was answered when Howard’s eye flicked to an attractive young lady behind the bar.

‘Oh great, _thanks_!’ was Rob’s sarcastic reply. Their investigation was already reaching egregious levels of amateurism, and they had only started this morning!

‘I can’t help it, can I?’ said Howard.

‘Oh shut up, How.’ Thinking he could still save their reputations and solve this case, Rob quickly got out his casebook and turned to an increasingly bored-looking Julia. ‘Where _were_ you at the time of the murder?’

Gary’s heart was still pumping fast, but not in anticipation of unmasking the murderer and putting an end to their odd but short investigation. It was beating fast because he suddenly realised what he’d been missing all along: Julia’s conversation with the maid yesterday morning; her behaviour at dinner; her reasons for breaking up with her boyfriend; the reason why she was here at all. Julia could not have killed Alex because . . .

‘I was right here,’ Julia said with mature confidence, ‘drinking up the courage to ask out the one person I love.’

Mark, Howard, Robbie, and Jason all uttered a confused ‘huh?’, but Gary understood. He understood perfectly.  

‘Meredith,’ Gary said with a defeated sigh, visibly disappointed that their discovery had turned out to be a dead end. ‘The maid. You were . . . in love with her.’

Julia was not put off by the discovery. ‘Indeed. How observant of you,’ she smiled. ‘You could teach your mates here a thing or two.’

Julia’s story was thus: she and Alex were lovers. That was the simple version. They met at a press conference when they were both still writers in training and had been deeply in love ever since. One day, they might even get married and have their honeymoon at the most lavish, luxurious hotel there was; perhaps even one they could barely afford, just for the hell of it.

That was once the lovers’ dream, but things weren’t so straightforward as they looked. The once so happy couple kept bumping into Meredith on their travels to the country’s most famous hotels, and with each meeting, Julia found the maid more and more attractive. She was falling in love with her, even, and by the time the girls met for the sixth time, here, several months ago, Julia knew there was no going back. She was in love, and so was Meredith. Alex was a mere stand-in for the next best thing. Smoke and mirrors.

This week, Julia was going to break up with Alex via letter and ask Meredith out. Then Alex died.

Howard frowned. The emotional girl he saw last night didn’t seem congruent with the girl who had fallen in love with someone else. ‘But you were _hysterical_ yesterday,’ he noted.  

Julia crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Wouldn’t _you_ be? If the person you spent several years of your life with died in the middle of the night? I may not have loved him, but that does not mean I have the heart of a killer.’

Gary cast down his eyes. He knew that the words he was hearing must be true, but he still felt as though his heart had dropped into his stomach and stayed there. All his hopes of clearing his name were disappearing with each passing second, and he could not feel proud of unmasking Julia’s true lover even if he tried. A child could have done it. 

‘Ask the barman,’ Julia added. ‘He’ll corroborate my statement. I was here all along,’ she said, voice breaking mid-sentence. She hesitated, then quietly left the lounge and moved out of the billiard room with her hand to her mouth, her entire being struck by sudden grief.

Quiet settled over the boys. Julia didn’t do it.

Gary felt himself go light in the head when the barman confirmed that Julia had indeed been drinking herself silly when the murder took place, and he quietly excused himself under the pretext that he was going to do some songwriting in his room. Even Mark’s soft kiss on his temple did nothing to erase the bad thoughts from his mind, and when Gary staggered into his room, alone, the only thing he could do was break down in tears. Soon the inspectors would find a piece of evidence that earmarked him as the murderer, and everything he knew would end.

|||||

‘D’you reckon we should check in on him, lads? Make sure he’s not going down with something?’

‘He’ll be all right, he said he was gonna do some writin’, didn’t he?’

‘He was only pretending, Rob.’

‘Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you, Markie? You two have done all sorts.’

‘Shut up, How. He just needs some alone time.’

‘Is _that_ what he calls it now? I see.’

‘You’re disgusting, Howard.’

|||||

Gary woke up on his bed in the middle of the night. A peal of thunder had woken him. He had slept for hours and hours.

Disoriented by the long nap and the fact that he was still in the clothes he had changed into yesterday, Gary forced himself to sit on the edge of his too-large bed and _remember_. What was he here for? What was happening? Why was he feeling so sad? What was that strange pressure on his tummy as if he’d witnessed something unsightly? He took a deep breath, and slowly the visual, technicolour pieces of the puzzle came together one by one like quick flashes of images. Mark. Murder. Julia. Meredith. Blood, so much blood. Lying to the police of all people because he was terrified of being outed. Him, a suspect.

His chest rose as he sharply inhaled. The problem had gone nowhere at all. The Take That Detective Agency had not managed to solve this murder.

Another peal of thunder startled Gary such that he almost fell off the bed.

That’s when an idea came to him. There was no way that the murderer would have kept the murder weapon, the knife, at the hotel. The inspectors _would_ find it and swipe it for fingerprints, which could only mean . . .

Gary looked out of the window, at the dark, baleful night. The storm had not stopped to beset the area since they got here, and entire areas of the hotel ground had now been flooded. It was as if the hotel was an island in the middle of a vast, dangerous sea, with its true predators inside of the hotel’s many chambers, safe from harm. Could the murder weapon be out there, in the rain, where no man or woman dared look because they may be struck by lightning or, worse, _killed_ by a knife to the throat?

He looked better, and saw a light flash where he knew the maze was. Someone was _there_. The police, possibly.

Or the killer.

He might not be willing to prove his alibi, but he _could_ do one thing: find the murder weapon and prove that it wasn’t his.

Not thinking about what he was getting himself in to, Gary grabbed his bag from the floor and immediately found what he was looking for: a torch. He quickly changed into an outfit more suitable for the night – a thick hoodie, a black raincoat he’d once received as a freebie from some Italian fashion magazine, a solid pair of shoes – and quietly sneaked out of his room after scanning both ends of the hallway. All was safe. His bandmates weren’t there.

The murder weapon _was_ outside, it just had to be; where else would you keep a knife when the entire hotel was on high alert?

Gary stepped out of the hotel doors into the ferocious rain and somehow woke up in Mark’s bed.

|||||

Mark didn’t blame Gary for trying. In this time of extremis they were all likely to do desperate things to clear their names – even Jason – but this, whatever “this” was, was something else. Mark didn’t even know how Gary had managed to sneak out in the first place. When _he_ tried it, he was immediately told off by the young, wide-eyed doorman, who then asked him if he could please go back to bed because there was a curfew. Not to mention that murderer who was still on the loose …

Mark had to bribe the doorman by signing a napkin for his niece and _swearing_ he wouldn’t tell the poor lad’s manager.

In hindsight, getting out was easy. What was harder was finding his boyfriend in the rain, the cold. Every single drop of rain that hit his face hurt like a thousand bee stings. Before he knew it, his wet, frozen feet felt like they were about to fall off. The old pyjama trousers he had gone out with were muddy before he had even stepped a foot outside. His hands felt like they belonged to someone else. 

Mark knew, of course, that it was an act of folly to go out and follow Gary in these circumstances, but Gary was his _lover_. This is what lovers _did_ , to protect each other. Love Gary, unconditionally.

That meant accepting the bruises on his body. All of them.

Gary’s once so beautiful face had been painted black and blue. There was a cut on his right temple, where Mark liked kissing him most. His body, the one Mark had helped change into a dry, more comfortable outfit while Gary slept, was blue all over. His knees. His chest. His forearms, once so strong and tanned, was a canvas of blues and greens, but that wasn’t the worst thing about it. Someone had _left_ him there, in the dark, his body an endless recipient of rain and dirt. It could have killed him. _Someone_ could have killed him and bloody gotten away with it.

But the murderer hadn’t killed him, and that was the strangest thing of all; if Gary had somehow uncovered the identity of the murderer or done something to aggravate him, why was he kept alive? Was the killer _really_ that keen on framing Gary for the murder or was there something else afoot that even Rob hadn’t spotted?

Gary stirred in his sleep, and Mark instinctively covered his bruised hand with his own. It felt rough and broken and not at all like the hand Mark had held so many times before, but Mark still held on to it, hoping, praying, that it would give Gary the strength to wake up and come back to him. Come back to him, and explain why he had not trusted Mark enough to go on this journey with him.

The branches of a nearby tree shook in the wind, its brown fingers tapping the windows over and over as if a person were standing outside. The sound of two or three guests’ late-night hubbub next door could be heard if one listened carefully, but Mark was only paying attention to Gary’s breathing.

Nothing else mattered.

|||||

Someone was holding his hand.

Gary always imagined that if he died he’d see white light. Perhaps he’d be welcomed to heaven by one of the late artists he used to listen to as a kid, but there was none of that tonight. No bright light, no familiar faces. No pearly gates, just an awful lot of pain; right here, on the back of his head. The pain spread to the rest of his body, and he slowly became aware of — of — he was in someone else’s room, but he couldn’t tell whose; he hadn’t been here yet.

In blind panic Gary got up from the bed, body bent over in pain, and saw nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter takes place in a bath.


	6. When You Whip Your Body Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mark and Gary finally get intimate.

Mark was no longer holding Gary’s hand when he woke up an eternity later.

‘Hey, handsome,’ said Mark, his words so soft-spoken that Gary almost didn’t catch them. He was sitting on a simple red chair that he’d put next to the bed, hands clasped in his lap. He was wearing something old. Something plain; an outfit a fashion journalist had once deemed “too old-fashioned” on page 12 of some tabloid newspaper.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Mark looked worried, somehow, but Gary couldn’t tell what the look was for. He vaguely remembered a feeling of . . . what _was_ it he’d felt back then? Fear? Apprehension? Excitement, perhaps, but he couldn’t remember what had triggered those feelings. It was as if someone had erased several hours from his memory, like a great, big, throbbing hangover without the alcohol.

‘Hey,’ rasped Gary. He tried to get up, but found it impossible. Mark immediately proffered a glass with water, and a little round pill.

‘Painkiller,’ Mark explained when he saw Gary’s look. ‘It’ll help with the, er, pain.’

It wasn’t until Mark mentioned the pain that Gary felt it. It was omnipresent throughout his entire body; awful, stinging, paralyzing pain. It was the single most painful thing he had ever felt, beating even that time he had eaten some seafood in Japan that had gone off and he spent the next couple of hours puking into hotel trash bins. It was _that_ feeling, magnified tenfold.

‘You should take a painkiller, Gaz,’ Mark insisted. Never mind looking worried, he looked bloody anxious. ‘ _Please_.’

A blush on Gary’s cheeks coloured his bruises even darker. ‘I – I can’t do it when you’re watching.’

‘Oh. O-okay,’ Mark stammered, and he left the glass and the pill on the bedside table, hands shaking, and got up. ‘I’ve run you a bath . . . I’ll just check if . . .’ he said incomprehensibly, and he quickly disappeared into the bathroom looking just as broken as Gary felt.

Mark being in the bathroom gave Gary the opportunity to lift up his blanket and find what he’d been fearing. Blues and greens, everywhere. His legs, cut and bloodied as if he’d tripped and fallen. Rubbishly applied band-aids on places he wished he could have saved. No wonder Mark looked so distraught, Gary looked like he’d been to hell and back; a hell that, no matter how hard he tried, Gary could sparsely remember.

Gary swallowed the pill with a bit of an effort. By the time Mark returned, Gary had downed the entire contents of the glass and almost dropped it on the floor in his shaky attempt to put it back on the bedside table.

‘In case you’re wondering what happened,’ Gary said, seeing the worry that was still edged into Mark’s face, ‘I don’t know either.’

Mark leant against the door frame to the bathroom, arms crossed. ‘You don’t remember?’

Gary thought about it. He could vaguely remember waking up, and — didn’t he then go outside and get knocked out? Yes, he must have. ‘Only that I went out to find the murder weapon and that I got hit on me head later.’ When he saw Mark shake his head in obvious disapproval, he was quick to add – in his being awake suddenly remembering more details from last night –, ‘I _saw_ it, Mark. The murder weapon. It was _there_.’

Rain continued to pelt the window in torrents.

‘Did you really think finding the murder weapon was more important than your _life_?’ Mark said. The disappointment in his eyes didn’t suit his usually so genial disposition; Gary knew Mark to be kind and forgiving, not . . . this, whatever it was. ‘If you was that keen on finding it you could at least‘ve let me know. I’m not stupid, Gaz; I can help. This is not like when you disappear into a recording stupid on your own cos you think no-one else can be of any use to you,’ he added petulantly.

That stung more than Gary’s cuts did. ‘That’s not true, Mark. If the label let me . . .’

‘That’s not the point. I’m your boyfriend, Gaz. We look out for each other. We _help_ each other.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve come to you first.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘I . . . don’t know.’

Mark was silent, then, ‘Can you really not remember what happened?’

‘Like I said, I remember putting on me coat and heading out, but after that it’s just blank. I know what I saw, though, Marko. The murder weapon. In the maze.’

‘I know, that’s where I found ya.’ Mark scratched the back of his head, straining to make sense of it all. ‘I followed you as soon as I noticed that you’d gone. I went to your room at about eleven, I think, to see if you were up for . . . But you wasn’t there, so I talked to the Rob and he said he thought you was with me, and then when I asked the doorman he said you’d gone out. At first I thought, you know, maybe you’re angry with me. Then I remembered how you looked when we found out Julia couldn’t have done it and I figured you might be off doin’ something stupid like nearly getting yourself killed.’

‘Wait, hang on, Mark — why would I be angry with you?’

Mark’s eyes didn’t meet Gary’s. ‘I don’t know.’

Gary sat a little straighter. ‘Mark, I’m not angry with you, all right? I’m not. Are you angry with _me_?’

‘Only for getting beat up by a _murderer_.’

Gary hadn’t even considered how he had achieved all these bruises. He looked at his arms as if seeing them in a new light. ‘You think the murderer did this?’

‘Well, it wasn’t me.’

Gary couldn’t argue with that. ‘How’d you know where I was, anyway? The maze, I mean?’

‘Figured it might be the one place you’d go,’ said Mark, sounding more like his usual self. ‘Took me a while to find ya but when I finally did I thought that, you know, that you’d _died_. You looked like a right mess; you had blood all over you, and, you know, this massive cut on your head.’ Gary put his fingers to his temple. There was now a big band-aid where the cut must be. ‘I figured the murderer had done it so I quickly took you back inside and bribed the doorman not to tell anyone. I could hardly wake you up.’

‘You didn’t call an ambulance?’

‘I couldn’t, could I? The phone lines are still dead. I did _try,_ Gaz.’

‘No, it’s good. Less attention. Imagine the racket if the press found out . . .’ Gary sniffed when his nose caught the scent of soap and strawberries. Mark’s scent. (Mark smelled like a nice combination of musk, sandalwood, strawberries, and cigarettes.) ‘Have you run a bath?’

‘Yeah, I . . . said, didn’t I?’ Mark considered something, then shook his head as though he thought better of it. He started towards the bed and proffered the palm of his hand. ‘C’mon, let me take you to the bathroom. Get you warmed up.’

‘I don’t wanna take a bath.’

‘Tough. You look like shit. _And_ you’re a bloody idiot.’

Gary acquiesced, then groaned and huffed as Mark helped him get up. He leaned against Mark for support, and slowly but surely they made it to the bathroom. A white bathrobe lay folded on a small cupboard, with next to it a pile of white towels of various sizes. Gary’s wet clothes had been laid out on the radiator. (Mark had even gone through the trouble of washing his trousers.) The bubbles that peeked out from the edge of the bathtub gave the impression that the tub had been filled to the top with water.

‘Are you gonna be all right?’ Mark said, with a sheepish nod at Gary’s clad body.

It was only now that Gary realised that he was wearing one of Mark’s old shirts. This being the nineties, it was too big even for Gary. (But _God_ , did it smell nice.)

Mark: ‘I mean, if you’re in too much pain I can —’

Gary blushed. ‘Um, I — no, thanks,’ he said a little brusquely. Then, because he didn’t want Mark to worry, added, ‘Thanks, Mark. I can manage on me own, I think.’ (Translation: _I don’t want you to see me like this._ )

Mark smiled, visibly reassured. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me,’ he said, sounding much less peeved than before, and he left the bathroom with the door slightly ajar.

When Gary was sure that Mark was out of earshot, he finally let out the half-sigh, half-groan he’d been holding in ever since he got out of bed. He leant one hand against the tiled wall and put his other to his forehead . . . the pain was worse than before he took his painkillers . . . if Mark found out . . . God, he’d be so worried . . .

He had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out while he took off his shirt, the task almost impossible in its execution, and gasped when he looked down at his naked legs. They were unrecognisable.

Who had done this to him? The murderer, yes, but _who_? Who in their right mind would — he could barely take off his boxers, it just hurt too much, and when he finally lowered himself into the bathwater the hundreds upon hundreds of tiny cuts that he wasn’t aware of having stung like a b—

But worse was when he mistook a peal of thunder for the shot of a gun. The clouds that looked like dangerous figures in the moonlight. Then, the sound of a closing door down the hallway that to him sounded like the murderer himself, looking for him in the dark corridors of the hotel. Even the bathwater terrified him. The killer could just come in and — oh, what was he thinking, going out like that . . . he could’ve . . . oh, but what if . . .

Mark came to Gary’s side seconds after he’d called out. He knelt on the soft, pistachio bathmat and caressed Gary’s ear with his fingers: a sensitive but painless spot.

‘In through your nose, that’s it,’ said Mark, watching Gary as he calmed down with each in- and exhale. He’d clearly had a panic attack, and who could blame him? _He had almost been killed_. Attacked, because he’d had an epiphany. Hurt, because the murderer was _afraid_ of him.

It made Mark feel angrier than ever before.

He caressed Gary’s neck with his fingers and elicited a satisfied moan. ‘Better?’

Gary nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He swallowed, then said, without thinking, ‘Could you stay with me? It’s just, I keep thinking the murderer’s gonna come out and . . .’ he trailed off, and stared at his bruised knees that poked out from the top of the water like two tanned, blue islands. ‘I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

Mark blushed a little. He looked at Gary’s form, hidden mostly by bubbles but for his chest and head. ‘You mean in _there_?’

Gary nodded, but didn’t meet Mark’s eye.

‘I’d have to take me clothes off,’ Mark noted.

‘I – I don’t mind,’ said Gary. ‘If you don’t, that is. _Do_ you? Mind, I mean.’ He cast down his eyes again, and saw quick, short fragments of last night flash before him: the corners of the maze that he thought looked so utterly terrifying in the dark; the mud on his shoes; the receding image of the hotel behind him, no longer a safe haven; but also the tall figure that appeared in the corner of his eye, tall and terrifying.

Gary felt a painful jab in his shoulder, and the image was gone. The fear remained.

‘Please, Mark,’ Gary pleaded with tears in his eyes, ‘I – I don’t want to be alone right now.’

‘Okay,’ Mark said with some determination, ‘but no starin’ as I get me kit off,’ he added with a wink, and he got off the floor as confidently as he could. He adroitly got off his shirt – no buttons –, and by the time Gary had more or less gotten over that familiar shock of seeing Mark half-naked again, Mark had already pushed his trousers to the floor and stepped out of them. What remained was something that Mark felt a little less confident doing.

‘Were you planning to get into the bath – _ack_ – in your underwear?’ said Gary, his attempt at playfulness interrupted by yet another pang, this time in his leg.

‘I’m just realising that you’ve never seen me . . . private parts.’

‘I have, though, at the _Do What You Like_ video shoot? I was sat in the corner making notes and everything.’

A smile played on Mark’s lips. ‘You were lookin’?’

‘It’s hard not to, you’re so . . .’ Gary trailed off, with an all-encompassing gesture as a place-holder for the adjective that he could not form with his lips.

Mark crumpled his nose and laughed. ‘Perv. Move over,’ he acquiesced, and he took off his boxers and got into the tub as slowly as possible, all to allow Gary the perfect stare. (He really _was_ quite big.)

‘Like it?’ Mark said, in an increasingly overweening manner. The bubbles now reached his chest too. All was covered.

‘Mm.’

‘C’mere,’ Mark purred, but when he leaned forward and kissed Gary on the cheek all he elicited was an exclamation of pain. Another spot, the same reaction. ‘Are you sure you took that painkiller, Gaz?’

‘Positive.’

‘Ah.’

Mark tried a third spot, this time just below Gary’s jawline, but it also ached. Gary’s forehead, also. Whatever the murderer had done to Gary to make him look this way, it hurt. Badly. How on Earth was he supposed to comfort his boyfriend if he couldn’t even _touch_ him?

Then a twinkle appeared in Mark’s eyes; one that usually heralded the concoction of a naughty prank or joke. ‘I maybe know a place that doesn’t hurt,’ he offered. His hands disappeared underneath the water, but went nowhere – for now. ‘What’d you think?’

Gary laughed nervously. His chest ached in the process. ‘I don’t know how that’s gonna stop making me feel like me head’s about to fall off.’

‘Are you underestimatin’ me skills, Mr. Barlow?’

‘I didn’t know you had any to speak of.’

Mark rolled his eyes.

‘Are you sure, though, Mark? I mean, you don’t have to do this because you feel like you _have_ to.’

‘No, I want to. Do _you_?’

Gary swallowed hard, then nodded twice. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’

The rest, much like Gary’s memories from that strange, strange night, was a blur. He was only vaguely aware of Mark’s hands trailing past cuts and bruises on his thighs and finding his cock, hard. He also didn’t register another attempt at a kiss, or the look of terror and curiosity in Mark’s eyes as if this were both the most exciting and terrifying thing he’d ever done, but Gary did feel every tingle of pleasure as Mark slowly stroked his cock up and down, hands oh so small and tight and bloody perfect.

‘Oh. _Ohh_ ,’ Gary groaned when Mark suddenly twisted his wrist just right. Clearly Mark was a natural. ‘ _Christ_ , that’s nice.’

It was as if they’d done this before, a million times over. They were like two pieces of a puzzle, their hands and bodies made for each other in the stars – except they _hadn’t_ done this before, not ever, so Gary let out a low, throaty moan of pleasure every time Mark did something obscene with his fingers. Within minutes, he was close to climaxing. Every stroke could be the last. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how good it would feel.

‘God, you’re good at this,’ Gary said. His chest had flushed a guilty red. His cheeks were burning.

‘Thanks,’ Mark said, a little too smugly. ‘Is there anything _else_ you’d like, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary’s mind simply went blank at the sheer number of things he wanted Mark to do to him. He wanted Mark to continue jerking him off like this, so slow, so _good_ , but he also wanted Mark to take his cock into his mouth and suck, gently. Suck him until he saw stars and forgot about tonight, but he didn’t know if Mark was ready for that yet . . .

‘Just your kiss,’ Gary managed to rasp out instead.

‘ _Mm_. You’re so romantic,’ said Mark, and he finally found a spot on Gary’s face that wasn’t bruised.

Their blissful moment was crushed only seconds later; Mark’s lips accidentally touched the cut on Gary’s chin, and Gary let out a sound that sounded half like pain, half like pleasure. The memories of that night came flooding back immediately.

‘Shit, sorry,’ Mark stammered. He stopped in the middle of a long, slow stroke and looked at his lover worriedly. ‘You still good?’

Gary said nothing. All of a sudden transported out of his sanguine thoughts, he sat a little straighter, making the water all around him splash gently against Mark’s flat tummy. He rested one hand on the bathtub’s edge as if he needed something to hold on to, and snapped his eyes shut like he was meditating.

He’d forgotten the pain. But now, he felt pain all over. In his limbs, his face, his precious fingers. Pain coursed through his chest every time he breathed. He still felt the blow to his head every time he blinked, no matter how hard he tried not to think of it. He still felt terrified that Alex’s killer would come bursting through their doors any moment now and kill them for coming _that_ close to finding out who he was, but most of all he felt like an idiot for thinking he could do this one his own because he felt like he had something to prove to everyone who doubted him. He hated the idea of people doubting him.

When Gary opened his eyes again, there were tears. The look of pleasure that had previously been obvious in his features was gone, entirely.

‘I just wish I hadn’t been so stupid tonight,’ he said, apropos of nothing. His face looked completely transformed, not just because of the bruises but because of how utterly _sad_ he was. He should never have risked his life like that. He should have just . . . ‘Christ, I’m such a —’ Gary broke off, and he covered his face with his hands through sudden waves of sobs. ‘I’m such an idiot.’

Mark sat straighter. ‘Hey, don’t say that.’

No response.

‘Gaz, look at me. _Gaz_ ,’ Mark repeated, louder, and slowly Gary lifted his heavy head. ‘You did good, all right, Gaz? You did good tonight.’

‘You’re not (hic) mad at me?’

‘Never, Gaz.’ (Gary rubbed his nose and sniffed loudly.) ‘Apart from that time when you stole me microphone,’ he added light-heartedly, ‘that wasn’t so nice.’

Gary laughed a little at that. ‘T’was your own fault for getting the lyrics wrong.’

‘Hm, yes. I suppose.’

Mark wanted to _truly_ comfort Gary, to tell him everything would be all right and that he was safe and heroic and all that nonsense that you say to someone when they’re hurt, but Mark was never really told how, so he proceeded to comfort Gary like only a lover could: by kissing him on the forehead, and slowly, oh – so – slowly resuming to stroke him.

‘You okay with me doing this?’

‘Y-yeah.’

‘You’ve done everything you could, Gaz,’ Mark said, and when his hand reached Gary’s base and gently squeezed him, the tears were gone. Gary’s breathing had slowed down. The light had returned to his eyes.

Gary swallowed. ‘You promise?’ he said slowly, again transfixed by Mark’s hand lost underneath a sea of bubbles.

‘Promise. We’re gonna catch this bastard,’ Mark said, and they kissed again, even gentler and slower than before because everything else hurt. The pain was an incredible, almost unimaginable contrast with how good Mark’s hand felt on Gary, stroking, squeezing. _Healing_. It didn’t quite rid his body of ache, but it made him forget one negative, self-destructive thought after another until all that remained was his complete and utter need for Mark and his perfect, fuckable body.

For a long time, touching each other so intimately felt like endgame for the both of them, the last step in their relationship like the final bosses in the Nintendo video games that Gary liked to play, but it was nothing like that, not really. There was nothing conclusive about what they were doing here, nothing that told them that there wasn’t something better and more amazing beyond this; it was just an extension of their feelings for one another, a different way to tell the other how much they felt and how much they cared, like the love letter that Gary wrote at this very hotel. This was just another way of saying _I love you_ , and God was it worth it.

‘There’s — a — thing — I’d like to — try,’ Mark said in between kisses. He sounded horny. _So_ horny.

‘ _Hm_?’

‘It might kill me, you know.’

‘Oh good, we’ll both have been at death’s door then,’ Gary said sarcastically, taking Mark’s comment to be metaphorical.

‘D’you wanna try, though?’

Gary shrugged, then groaned because it hurt his back and shoulders. ‘I guess? Unless it takes a lot of effort, mind. I don’t wanna get a hernia or something.’

‘You won’t.’

‘Um, okay,’ Gary said. Then, to belie the nervousness he felt, ‘Okay, yeah. Try.’

In his enthusiasm and desire to make Gary feel better, Mark had completely forgotten how inexperienced he was. He was a virgin, still. He had never done these things before and he might not even be that good at them, but it didn’t matter when all he wanted is to make Gary come. All that mattered, was taking Gary somewhere else; take him to a place where his body didn’t ache and the rain wasn’t pouring down on them both. (And part of Mark just wanted to show off, let’s be honest. That _was_ his job, after all.)

Seeing an opportunity, Mark took a deep, pointless breath and actually went and submerged his head into the too-deep bathwater.

‘Oh. _Oh!_ ’

Gary had read about blowjobs, seen them on videos and fantasied about them, but Gary had never imagined it would be that _good_ , especially not at this stage of their relationship, with Mark’s mouth already perfectly imitating the flesh that Gary one day wanted to sink into and fuck oh so thoroughly. Mark’s throat was warm and tight and soft and _perfect_ , and Gary had to fight the urge to push his hands into Mark’s hair and keep him down there.

Mark had bobbed his head up and down seven or eight times when he desperately went back up for air and emerged looking like an extra out of fucking _Baywatch_. He spit out some water in a rather gratuitous manner and ran his hands through his wet, soapy hair.

‘That was harder than I (cough) thought it was gonna be,’ Mark gasped before pointlessly wiping his face with his wet hands.  

‘Thanks,’ Gary said lamely. In the conversation’s pause, he fell silent in a brief moment of reverie, and it was then that Gary realised that his nerves from their almost-first time were absent. They weren’t there, and hadn’t been ever since Mark started touching and kissing him right here, in this bath, after a night of terrible possibilities in the cold. It was almost as if they needed something very bad to happen to make those anxieties from their first evening together seem unimportant in hindsight; for why should they feel nervous or scared when what they had in the palms of their hands was each other?

Mark: ‘How close do you (cough) reckon you are?’

‘Eh?’

‘Your . . . _orgasm_ ,’ Mark pointed out, sounding out of breath as he pronounced the word ‘orgasm’ like it was something very unknown and interesting. ‘How close?’

Gary’s cock twitched. Mark had never made him come before.

‘Um, very? I guess? I mean, maybe like five minutes or — or something?’ Gary added uncertainly when Mark made a face as if to say, _As if._ ‘Or thirty seconds . . . Twenty-five . . . I don’t normally last that long to be honest,’ he said with unnecessary candour. ‘Er, w-why?’

Mark thought about it, then made an impressed face. ‘That’ll do,’ he said keenly, and back in he went, his hair a majestic, flowing sight as he moved his face to the only part of Gary’s body that didn’t ache. But instead of taking Gary all the way in, his lips tugged at Gary’s tip while his hands played with his balls — his tongue slid into a sensitive little spot that Gary was hardly even aware of having — and Gary came with a loud groan, well under ten seconds. The soap bubbles having mostly disappeared by now, Gary could see his own cum float artistically in the water like smoke in air before Mark came up for a pornographic kiss.

Drops of water ran down Gary’s cheeks, and he couldn’t tell if he’d cried them out of joy or if they were just a product of Mark’s soaked hair touching his forehead. (Both.) Then Gary thought he could taste himself in the water that still rested on Mark’s tongue, and it was almost as hot as Mark then getting up and dangling his erect cock in front of his face like a goddamn challenge.

‘ _Your_ turn, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark said complacently.

‘B-be careful, Mark, you’re gonna slip and hurt yourself.’

Mark let his fingers slip into Gary’s short hair. ‘Not if I have something to hold on to, I won’t,’ he said quasi-sexily. (Christ, he looked hot with all those tiny bubbles on his chest and abdomen like that.) ‘Unless you’re in too much pain?’ he added in his normal voice, with a worried, all-encompassing look at Gary’s body. Unfortunately, his bruises hadn’t magically disappeared.

‘I’ll let you know if I strain me tongue,’ Gary joked by way of reassuring Mark that he was feeling all right. (He wasn’t, really, what with the egg on his thigh suddenly pulsating with every single heartbeat and his neck feeling less than all right now that he was no longer hard and about to come, but he wasn’t going to turn down the chance to give Mark an orgasm. Even if he _was_ bloody clueless.) He looked at Mark’s wet, perfect cock uncertainly. ‘How do I —?’

‘I dunno, I just opened me mouth, and stuff happened. You taste really nice, by the way.’

‘That’s really useful, thanks.’ And so, with a little help from his boyfriend – who now thought he was an expert in the matters of The Blowjob – Gary slowly took Mark into his own mouth, _and stuff happened_.

It was a beautiful, tender moment, with Gary’s hands on his lover’s thighs throughout, keeping Mark steady as the water softly rippled against their bodies. Mark’s gratuitous, high-pitched whimpers, drowning out even the sound of the rain. Mark’s short fingers caressing Gary’s hair, comforting him, wordlessly telling Gary that he was doing a good job. And later, the tensing of Mark’s taut body when he came into Gary’s mouth, for a moment rendering Gary’s thoughts completely blank because he wasn’t sure whether it was the best or weirdest thing he’d ever felt. Then the messy, reassuring kiss that followed, and the ‘Sorry, Gaz’ from Mark when one of his eager hands accidentally landed on a painful bruise.

But what was even better than their orgasms and the subsequent high was an utterly spent Gary snuggling up against Mark’s flat chest and having his hair massaged until he slowly dozed off.

||||

Gary didn’t have any nightmares that night. When he woke up in Mark’s bed the next morning with no memory of how he got there – but with the remnants of last night’s thrill still tangible in his body –, he felt happy and content. Mark was spooning him, arms slung around his sore tummy, and it was the most comfortable they had both ever felt, mentally and physically.

Yes, Gary’s body hurt from the strain and abuse of last night’s dangerous search for the murder weapon, but it didn’t matter because he had Mark, and Mark had him. Even though they were in the epicentre of what might soon become a media circus about pop stars and murderers, they could be together at last; safe and private, and held tightly in each other’s arms.

A soft moan against the nape of Gary’s neck signalled Mark’s waking.

They had slept together before, but never like this, with their bodies pressed so close together that Gary had momentarily forgotten that Mark was a whole other person. Usually, they’d share a bed but be too scared or shy to lie together. Now, they had completely thrown their previous reservations out of the window; this, Gary decided, was how he wanted to spend the nights and mornings for the rest of his life.

‘Mornin’, Gaz.’

‘Mornin’,’ said Gary. He felt too comfortable to complain about Mark pulling the sheet off his bare shoulder. Like this, arms and legs positioned just so, lying comfortably on his side, nothing hurt. He didn’t even feel cold. (How could he, with Mark treating him as his own personal teddy bear?)

‘ _Mmm_ ,’ was Mark’s sleepy response. He started placing soft pecks on the back of Gary’s head. ‘I love sleeping with you,’ he said against Gary’s short hair.

Gary chuckled. It felt kinda tickly to be kissed like that. ‘Yeah, same here.’

‘You do snore a bit, though. Have I ever told you that?’

‘There’s no _way_ I snore, mate. Jason, _he_ snores.’

‘ _Hm-mmm_.’ Mark pulled Gary even closer so that his tummy was pressed firmly against Gary’s back. His hands wandered round the small curve of Gary’s stomach — up his chest — and rested on Gary’s nicely shaped pecs. (They had gone to bed wearing only their underwear; Gary did try to pull on a shirt after they’d climbed out of the bath but his arms felt like lead so he just gave up halfway and let himself fall onto the bed like a tired sack of potatoes. He dozed off again immediately.)

‘I want to make love to you,’ a now less sleepy sounding Mark whispered into Gary’s ear.

‘I —’

One of Mark’s fingertips grazed Gary’s left nipple, and the response that Gary was about to give froze in his mouth. When Mark repeated the gesture, his crotch felt a little more prominent against Gary’s arse.

He wanted this _badly_.

‘Please, Gaz,’ – Mark continued to place soft kisses on the back of Gary’s head – ‘Let me fuck you.’

(Christ, that _word_. “Fuck”.)

‘I-it’s six in the morning,’ Gary pointed out. It didn’t sound like he was entirely rejecting the idea. (The semi in his boxers wasn’t, anyway.)

‘So?’

‘P-people are still sleeping,’ Gary elaborated unconvincingly, with a subtle rub against Mark’s hardening cock that completely invalidated his words.

Gary wanted this badly, too.

‘So?’ Mark released a deep, aroused sigh against Gary’s neck. ‘We’ll be _quiet_ , then.’

‘You can’t be quiet, you — you nearly moaned me ears off last night.’

‘Only because you were so good with your _mouth_ ,’ Mark said, with a spine-tingling kiss on Gary’s ear.

‘S-sure,’ an increasingly nervous Gary said, ‘blame _me_ if we get caught, why don’t you?’

It had taken the entire conversation for Gary to finally – painfully – wriggle out of his boxers, and by the time he had thrown the garment on the floor Mark had already gotten out of bed to grab a condom. He did so completely naked, of course, and it was at the sight of Mark’s perfectly formed body that Gary’s nerves fully punched him in the gut.

This was finally happening.

They were going to have sex. _Christ._

Mark spotted Gary’s anxiousness as he tried to tear the condom wrapper with his teeth. (Unsuccessfully.) ‘Nervous?’

Gary nodded.

‘Yeah, me too.’

Gary watched, transfixed, how Mark slipped on the condom with a bit of an effort. He sashayed back to the bed, hand on cock – smug bastard that he was; he was clearly still reeling from last night’s blowjobs –, and elicited a steely creak from the box spring when he crawled back to where Gary was half-lying, now absolutely _terrified_. (Gary knew that virginity was just a man-made concept and that it was completely, utterly okay that he had thus far only half-lost his virginity despite already being twenty-four, but this was a bit of a Thing, wasn’t it? Mark was going to be inside of him. _Inside of him_. Fucking hell.)

Mark carefully draped himself over Gary’s body like a blanket, his eyes already fluttering closed in anticipation of a kiss. His mouth was inches removed from Gary’s, waiting for Gary to give in and lean in — it’d be the final kiss before they finally made love and became one —

That’s when Mark’s clumsy hand accidentally touched a painful spot.

‘ _Ow_ ,’ Gary uttered. ‘ _Ack_!’ he cried when Mark’s hand hit another bruise in an attempt to lie on top of him a little more comfortably. It hurt like hell, and they weren’t even fucking yet!

Mark straightened a little. Clearly pinning Gary to the mattress like he’d been dreaming of doing wasn’t going to work out this morning, especially not if they didn’t want to attract attention to themselves at the breakfast table later. ‘How ‘bout you, erm, you know, sit on me instead?’ he offered while scratching the back of his head in careful consideration.  

Gary shook his head very quickly. ‘No way, mate.’ (He wasn’t ready for that yet. _Nuh-uh_.)

‘We could try it standing up?’ Mark suggested a little sheepishly.

‘ _Jesus_.’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Mark, blushing at his own ignorance. He clearly wasn’t as well-versed on the subject of sex as last night’s otherwise amazing blowjob had made him believe. ‘You’re the one who watched _porn_ before we got here, not me.’

Gary coloured. ‘They were — educational movies,’ he pointed out. ‘And I only watched _one_ of ‘em, anyway.’ (He had actually watched the whole set of videos – twice in fact –, but he didn’t tell Mark that.)

Mark rolled his eyes. ‘Have your “educational movies” given you any ideas?’

Gary thought about it, then cleared his throat when an idea came to him. ‘There’s always, um — I mean, we could just lie down. Like we were before we woke up. I mean, it’s not, er, particularly — _you know_ , but, _um_. Yeah.

Mark considered this incomprehensible train of thought. ‘Will it feel good?’

‘It’ll be less painful, I guess.’

‘All right. Roll over, I suppose.’

Gary rolled onto his side with a bit of an effort, then let out a shaky breath when he felt Mark’s hot, naked body against his back a moment later. It felt even better than it had upon waking up, with Mark’s hands already lingering on his sides, marking all the spots that would soon be his; his breath, warm and heavy against the nape of his neck, the rhythm a nice, perpetual comfort; his soft, loving words, colouring the air with anticipation of what was to come.

Their legs were tangled like two perfect pieces of a bespoke puzzle, and Gary could only imagine what it would feel like t—

‘I’ve just realised I’ve left the lube in me bag,’ Mark said against the back of Gary’s head. He sounded really embarrassed. ‘D’you mind if I . . . ?’

‘Christ, Mark.’

Mark apologised profusely, then quickly went and grabbed the bottle before Gary could begin to realise how cold he felt without his lover’s body behind him. Mark, after all, was his comfort, his light in the dark, the metaphorical fireplace on a cold winter night, his importance and significance only highlighted by how terrible the past few days had been. Without Mark, this visit to the hotel would have been the nadir of Gary’s career. It would have crushed him. But with Mark there to help him and soothe him and take away the incisive pain that he felt every time he moved or even breathed, everything felt a little less awful and much, much more beautiful.

When Mark once again joined him in the same position, Mark’s cock felt a little wet against his skin.

This was it, then.

‘I’m, er, I’m just gonna go inside of you now, okay?’ Mark said a little bluntly, with a tremble in his voice that very much mirrored how Gary was feeling. They were both as nervous as each other.

‘O-okay,’ Gary rasped, and his body tensed involuntarily when Mark gently lifted up his left leg and pushed against his entrance a little incompetently, in their shared ignorance and excitement completely forgetting that there was such a thing as foreplay.

Gary wondered if it’d hurt.

He wasn’t really sure if it was supposed to.

Mark, sounding absolutely clueless: ‘I-is this —?’

Gary shook his head. Definitely not.

The sheets underneath their bodies rustled as Mark readjusted himself. ‘L-like this?’

(What if Mark wasn’t going to fit? Could that happen?)

(Oh _God._ )

‘ _Err_ , more lube?’ Gary suggested a little nervously, and Mark quickly grabbed the bottle of lube from the bedside table and slathered his fingers with the stuff. When his wet fingers accidentally caressed Gary’s perineum in preparation (again, a place neither of them knew could elicit such bliss), Gary let out a little gasp of pleasure. Mark repeated the motion, and it felt just as nice.

‘Good?’

‘ _Hmmm_.’

‘Shall I, er, try again?’ said Mark, to which Gary nodded.

Afterwards, Gary couldn’t remember if he’d moaned or not. Whether he was loud. Whether he came quickly. All he remembered was that he had no idea what to think or say anymore when he felt Mark’s cock slowly – painfully – push inside of him, sideways. Everything about it felt wrong, _sinful_ , and yet he wanted nothing more than to find out what it’d be like to have Mark fill him fully, to move until there was no more space to fill and they were one and the same person, rocking and climaxing in unison. It was the one pleasure they had been saving for each other, and while there were a million other things that they could be doing right now that would also cement their love and make it real, true, unquestionable, and all-consuming — fucking each other felt really, really fucking good.

‘M-more,’ was all that Gary could croak out, and Mark pushed in further and further, until the only pain that Gary felt was the skin around his entrance being stretched unnaturally, and Mark’s nails digging into his skin.

‘How’s it feel?’

‘G-good.’

‘Painful?’

‘A little. Good painful.’

‘W-would you like me to move?’

‘Y-yeah.’

And so they continued their heuristic approach to love-making, with Mark slowly moving in and out, in and out, and speeding up or slowing down again whenever a trembling Gary asked. Quickly, a feeling was bubbling inside their stomachs that was not unlike what they felt in the bath yesterday, and their movements became quicker. Less gentle. Even Gary was starting to writhe and move his naked, marked body along.

It had stopped raining.

Mark’s lips and teeth were on Gary’s sensitive skin throughout, and soon they saw stars.


	7. A Realisation

The sun was out, leaving space for blue skies and only the occasional, lingering raindrop. The trees’ sweeping orange and yellow foliage looked beautiful in the morning sun. Children unaware of the weekend’s tragic events were playing in the large but undeep pools that were dotted around the hotel ground. The worst of the flood had disappeared. People could use the phones in their hotel rooms again. It was almost as if the weather was tempting the hotel guests to shake off their dark moods and come out and play, but none of those thoughts reached the guests’ heads; with the entire hotel still in mourning – or for some, pretending to be –, breakfast was a solemn and quiet affair. Even the waiters and waitresses didn’t say a word as they went about their daily businesses of clearing plates and providing guests with well-needed coffee refills. Only the clatter of knives and forks sounded.

More importantly, an important question lingered on the boys’ lips throughout breakfast, and it was only when more than half of the guests had retreated to their respective rooms (and Nigel had spontaneously decided to phone up the record label if they could _please_ do Royal Variety after all) that they had the courage and opportunity to ask it: why did Gary have so many bruises on his body, and why did he look so bloody _happy_ about it?

Howard was the first to address the issue. He did so with his usual boyish charm: ‘Look at the state of you!’ he noted while giving a quick wave at Gary’s bruised upper body. The songwriter was wearing an oversized shirt whose long sleeves had unfortunately crept up his arms, and he seemed to be in an awful lot of pain judging by the way he pressed his lips together every time he so much moved his little toe. Mark had carefully applied some make-up to his face that morning to hide the worst of the damage.

Howard went on, ‘Was you up shaggin’ all night, or what? I’m surprised Nige didn’t say anything.’

Gary gave a sheepish titter that Mark took as a signal to answer the question for him. He lowered his voice and leaned forward conspiratorially before checking that they weren’t being overheard. ‘He was attacked by the _murderer_.’

Rob: ‘No!’

Jason: ‘ _What_!’

Howard: ‘What’d you mean, _attacked_? He’s ‘ere?’

‘ _Shh_ , keep your voices down!’

Mark went on to retell Gary’s story in exaggerated detail, from Gary realising that the murder weapon must be anywhere but in the hotel itself to being hit on the head and finding himself safely in Mark’s room. The only thing he left out was the hand-slash-blowjob that followed, and their transcendent morning the next day. He also added that he thought Gary was an absolute _legend_ for being so brave and heroic and wonderful, because that’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?

By the time Mark was finished regaling his bandmates with Gary’s story, Jason’s baked beans had gone cold. Howard’s mouth was half-open in a silent scream of shock. Rob, however, had his thinking face on throughout the retelling; he knew something was up. ‘If you nearly got killed, then why d’you look so ‘appy about it?’ he said.

Gary turned scarlet. The real answer, of course, was _Because me and Mark had sex this morning and I can still feel him inside me of actually and I’m just so fucking chuffed because it was better than in me dreams and did I mention that I really, really love cock_ , but they were still in the dining hall in a very posh – albeit lethal – hotel, so Gary just intoned, ‘I’m just happy we’re finally getting to the bottom of this, is all.’

‘Are we, though?’ said Jason. ‘If we’ve learned anything it’s that the murderer is onto _us_ being onto _him_.’

‘Or her,’ Rob proffered.

‘You think a woman did _that_?’ Howard said, with a nod at Gary’s arms. ‘I’m surprised it didn’t kill ‘im.’

‘I’m just sayin’, it _could_ be a woman.’

‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ said Howard. He chewed on his cold sausage in careful thought. ‘It’s that businessman, I reckon.’

‘He doesn’t even have a proper motive!’

‘So? He could still‘ve done it. He’s always angry, isn’t he? _And_ you added ‘im to that list of yours.’

‘Only cos I wanted to be thorough.’

While his bandmates argued about the identity of the murderer, Gary slipped into a quiet moment of reverie. He didn’t care that much about the murder anymore, at least not _now_ , not while he was sat at breakfast with his mates, Mark’s hand slowly creeping up his thigh. Those had perhaps been the best moments of all; not necessarily the titillating sensation of Mark stroking his prostate or the precious knowledge that they had come within seconds of each other, but the brief touches that followed. Mark’s nose rubbing his neck, for example, or the way their fingers entwined on Gary’s chest as they slowly dozed off again. Those moments were the best. (Well, second best after falling asleep with Mark still filling him up, anyway.)

To think that they could share such an intimate moment in the midst of this strange tragedy gave him the strength to carry on. He had survived the storm out in the labyrinth; now, it was time to challenge the problem out in the sunshine or ignore it forever.  

The conversation had reached the subject of the murder weapon. Mark gave Gary’s leg a squeeze to pull him out of his reminiscing.

‘You said the murder weapon was a knife?’ said Rob. He had taken out his notebook again and scribbled something in it.

Gary nodded. ‘T’was an ordinary kitchen knife. Small. Er, sharp, I guess.’

Rob stroked his chin in careful thought in the conversation’s forced halt; one of the waitresses had come to collect their empty plates and tea cups. (She was the perfect height to be able to cause such bad injuries on Gary’s body, Howard thought in spite of his previous theories. Could the murderer indeed have been a woman? She _did_ look a bit nervous when she picked up Gary’s tea cup just now . . . Oh, but they’d already ruled out all their female suspects . . .)

The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, and a suddenly enlightened Rob quickly went on, ‘If I were a murderer and I used a knife to do me murdering, where would I keep the weapon?’

Mark had not so subtly resumed touching Gary’s leg underneath the table. He liked how firm and soft it felt, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the way he had to lift up Gary’s leg so he could . . . and how much Gary’s body trembled when he . . .

‘A knife . . . rack?’ Jason offered.

‘Which you usually find in —?’

Mark and Gary looked at each other. ‘The kitchen!’ they whispered in unison, and Gary went a little pink because it wasn’t the only thing they’d done at the same time that day.

‘But how do we search the kitchen?’ Mark asked under his breath. ‘It’s always staffed.’

‘I could distract the chef?’ Howard suggested. ‘She kinda looked like she was into me yesterday.’

Mark rolled his eyes. ‘Do you fancy _every_ pretty girl?’

‘ _Pff_ , like you’d know!’

‘I’m _gay_ , How, not blind,’ Mark said. ‘Anyway, what good is distracting _one_ chef gonna do?’

But Rob had already demonstratively crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. He had a Plan.

|||||

With the approaching end of breakfast, the activity in the hotel seemed to cease and calm even more, giving the boys the perfect moment and opportunity to carry out their big plan. Howard and Jason were given the task to waylay any guests or members of staff on their way to the kitchen while Mark and Gary were to search for the murder weapon. (The boys had all agreed that finding the murder weapon would be a sure-fire way of proving that Gary hadn’t killed Alex; they hadn’t considered that showing up at the police inspectors’ office brandishing a bloody knife might _perhaps_ make them look more suspicious than they already did . . .) Rob had a different, perhaps more expedient task: he was to distract the kitchen staff and hide in a cupboard after.

The kitchen, like so many kitchens in large four-to-five-star hotels, was about the size of Rob’s old house in Stoke. Everywhere he looked, there were ovens, microwaves, grills, spice cabinets, fridges, storage units, pots, pans, fruit baskets, spoons, ladles, glasses, plates, and cupboards. It was truly impressive, and so no-one blamed the young head chef for feeling a little bit smug that she worked here. It was a job to be proud of, this!

As far as the young head chef was concerned, everything was running smoothly this morning. Murderers and incidents, she had decided, would not stop her restaurant from being the best it could possibly be. The guests were enjoying their food, not one single member of staff was unsure of their task, and one young gentleman had even given her a personal compliment that had made her feel very confident indeed. (Something about her buns looking delicious? Ah well.)

None of the staff knew this, but this had in fact only been the girl’s first, proper job. Ever. She had never once considered that it was perhaps her affable, contagious personality that got her the job of head chef rather than her cooking skills; even now, she still had to ask her co-workers to tell her how some of the appliances worked. In fact, one of the microwaves seemed to be on fire right now!

The microwave was on fire.

‘Fr—ed,’ the head chef hollered at one of her colleagues, panic rising in her voice as she paused beating some egg yolk, ‘why the hell is there smoke coming out of my microwave?’

But it wasn’t just the microwave that was emitting large palls of smoke; soon, the entire kitchen turned grey and smog-like! Within mere seconds, the grey wall of smoke became intimidating and impenetrable, and all eleven members of staff hastened out of their precious kitchen like their lives depended on it, not knowing that the smoke was in fact completely harmless and just the result of some fun toy Rob had once bought at a fancy-dress shop.

When the last of the chefs had left, Mark and Gary went back inside with wet towels covering their mouths. They bumped into each other and stumbled into drawers until most of the smoke had cleared and they found what they were looking for: a knife rack designed in the same manner as the murder weapon.

Gary said something that was rendered incomprehensible due to the towel to his mouth.

‘What?’ said Mark.

Gary removed the towel from his face and, upon finding the air clear again, threw it on the kitchen counter. ‘The knife’s not there.’

Mark coughed. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I just can okay?’ Gary said in an irritated manner, the hope Rob’s plan had given him sinking into his shoes and deserting his body until none of it was left. He scratched the back of his head, anxious. ‘The murderer must’ve — perhaps he threw it into a — a lake or — or . . .’

Mark ignored all that and started towards the nearest kitchen counter, where he opened every drawer and cabinet he could find. Nothing. The next, still nothing. Gary had described the knife to him, but he found not a single item that matched its description. That is, he didn’t until he spotted Inspector Davies with the murder weapon held in his gloved hand.

‘Crap.’

‘Well, well,’ the inspector chided, his large, elderly body blocking the exit to the deserted corridor, ‘you’re certainly not making this easier for yourself, Mr. Barlow. Asking your friends to distract the kitchen staff so you could steal back the knife that you’d stolen? Very disappointing indeed.’ His glance fell on the myriad of cakes and pies that covered one of the kitchen counters, now possibly rendered inedible thanks to Rob’s smoky party piece. ‘Or were you just planning to steal these sweets here? It’ll certainly be less . . . life-changing than what you’re about to be charged with.’

Gary gulped. The inspector must’ve been standing there for _minutes_. How bad must they have looked, searching the kitchen like that?

Davies looked at the knife next, which still had the dirt and dust from last night on it. He ran his finger along the blade as if gauging its sharpness, then directed his steely gaze at the silly, silly boy banders in front of him. ‘I’m not going to make this more pleasant than it has to be, Gary; this knife has both Alex’s blood _and_ your fingerprints on it. We’ve matched it with the fingerprints you left on the cup of tea you had at breakfast this morning. Didn’t think we would, did you, Gary?’

Gary opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. Of course. What a bloody fool he’d been.

‘Allow me to tell you what’s going to happen here, Gary,’ the inspector said gingerly. ‘You have no alibi. You have motive and opportunity, however, and on top of that you’ve _miraculously_ gained some bruises overnight, which you will no doubt claim are a result of your being in an all-dancing, all-singing boy band. That’s fine. But it doesn’t explain why the murder weapon is _covered_ with your fingerprints. _Your_ fingerprints, Gary. Not mine, nor the fingerprints of the woman who found it, but _yours_. Do you know what that means, Mr. Barlow?’

Rob almost hit his head against the inside of the cupboard he was hiding in. A _woman_ had found the murder weapon?

‘Mr. Barlow,’ the inspector reiterated, ‘ _do you know what that means?_ ’

Gary shook his head.

‘It means that two officers are on their way now to arrest you. Right now.’

Gary’s heart skipped a beat. Arrest him? But he didn’t have anything to do with it! The only reason they were here, was to _prove_ that!

‘But inspector, I —’

Davies shushed Gary with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘No excuses, Mr. Barlow. The murder weapon _has_ got your fingerprints on it. Unless by some miracle you turn out not to have committed the murder after all, you _will_ be arrested. Do you hear me, Gary? This, _all of it,’_ – the inspector made an all-encompassing gesture at Gary’s bruises – ‘is your own doing. Whether you’re guilty or not.’

Gary nodded to show that he understood. He understood. Perfectly.

‘Do you have anything to add, Mr. Barlow? Anything at all?’

Gary hesitated, then shook his head. He could feel Mark trembling beside him.

‘Are you sure? Now is not the time to be keeping things from me.’

‘I-I’m sure, Inspector Davies. Sir,’ Gary said. His voice had been transformed by fear thus that he did not recognise it. His voice was not his own, and neither, it seemed, was his body; it felt as though he was watching everything happen from afar, including the rising and falling of his own chest as he realised how badly he’d fucked this up.

‘You have twenty minutes,’ warned the inspector. ‘Use them wisely, Gary.’

The old inspector didn’t leave the kitchen fast enough to catch Robbie crawling out of his hiding place and speeding off upstairs to investigate, and even if he had he wouldn’t have been perceptive enough to realise the importance of it anyway; he’d done his job and told the songwriter the news. Everything would be out of his hands the moment his local colleagues showed up. But Rob still had hope. He’d read his casebook again and again until he found what he’d been missing. He’d tear it apart and read the words in reverse if he had to, cast a spell, ask for help, anything — anything to prove that Gary. Had. Not. Done. It.

‘Gary, you didn’t do it. The police will see that,’ Mark whispered. They were in the kitchen still. With the remnants of the smoke bombs still remaining in the shape of little wisps, and the kitchen staff too deflated to come back and cook anyway, they were completely alone. Alone, indeed, with their own thoughts: Gary felt like his entire life had been turned upside down; his view of the world was now blurry and oblique, with no way of escaping what was yet to come.

He was to going to be arrested. And it was all his own fault.

He turned to Mark – his boyfriend –, but found it impossible to speak with clarity.

‘Mark, if I — when — please don’t — if I end up in _prison_. . .’

But Mark wasn’t listening to any of that. He flat-out refused. He grabbed Gary’s hand and squeezed it tight in spite of the bruises. _Held_ it, not caring how rough it felt. And Gary squeezed back, not caring, suddenly, how badly he’d previously tried not to get caught. Getting caught was the least of his worries. A printed picture of his hands holding Mark’s? Better than being charged with _murder_.

‘You’re not going to prison, Gaz,’ Mark said with much passion. ‘You’re _not_.’

But he _was_. Wasn’t he?

Gary blinked. He suddenly didn’t feel so sure. ‘But the inspector said . . .’

Mark ignored the comment. The inspector’s words were meaningless. Mere threats. What mattered, was the truth. _He_ knew Gary had not done it. Gary himself did, and Mark would simply not allow his life to be bereft of the one thing he loved most in the entire world. It was the one thing he would sacrifice everything else for and the _one_ thing he would still care about if this whole Take That thing blew over: his relationship with Gary. Nothing else mattered. If the inspector really thought he and Gary were that brittle, he hadn’t met them yet. They’d been through hating their own sexualities and nearly getting caught kissing in hotel rooms to _this_ , this dark, dark visit to the English countryside and almost losing each other in the eye of the storm. They’d get through this.

‘We’ll get through this, Gaz,’ Mark said, meaning it with every fibre of his body. ‘I swear to God, you’re not going to prison.’

Mark slowly took Gary’s hand to his mouth and started to kiss his fingers, one by one. They were coloured with large red and blue bruises, but Mark didn’t care. Gary’s fingers, his arms, his legs, knees changed beyond recognition — he’d treasure it all if and whenever Gary let him, no matter what state he was in. He’d kiss it all better. That’s what lovers _do_.

‘We’ll get you out of this,’ Mark went on after planting another soft kiss on Gary’s hand, ‘and then we’ll elope. Together.’ When that suggestion elicited no response, he added in jest, ‘We could get married, you know. If only just for show. D’you reckon I look good in a dress? I’ve never tried it.’ He pondered this image very seriously. ‘I mean, me voice might give it away, but . . .’

Gary laughed in spite of himself. ‘Mark, we can’t . . .’

‘Then we’ll move in together.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts.’ Slowly, Mark moved his hands to his lover’s arms; bruised underneath the shirt he was wearing but so, so beautiful. So _strong_. (He wondered what it’d be like to be pinned to the bed by them.) Mark wanted to kiss those arms again and again, in perennial sessions of affection and love-making until Gary felt whole again.

It didn’t matter that Gary had a motive or that his fingerprints were all over the murder weapon or that his injuries made him look more suspicious than not; the truth would out, and so, one day, would they. If they wanted to.

‘But Mark . . .’

Mark ignored Gary still. He moved his hands slowly up Gary’s arms and paused at his neck, where he felt so, so tempted to kiss him. Kiss him, because he wanted to. Kiss him, because Gary needed it. At the end of the day, that’s what their first kiss six months ago had been all about; it was not only a kiss that they both wanted to happen, but _needed_ to. After all, how else would they ever find out whether their feelings for each other were real? Not by sitting it out, waiting for it to blow over; they needed to take that risk down in the verdant labyrinth, no matter the consequences.

But today, the consequences of their every action, past and present, were really fucking big. Be arrested, or get through it. Worry, or be strong.

Could Mark be right? Would this really just blow over?

Perhaps he _was_ being paranoid. Perhaps, indeed, the inspector was just testing him. The inspector could merely be bluffing because Gary was the only viable suspect he had; everyone else had a paper thin motive. But Gary, Gary had means _and_ opportunity. Alex hated him. The police were always going to find him suspicious.

Those things and more were the delusions Gary told himself after his first and only interview with the police inspector a couple of days ago, and they still held true: the police would find out he didn’t have anything to do with the murder. They’d arrest the right person. The police were just playing games, because that’s what the police did in order to get people behind bars.

Gary needed Mark to kiss him.

Spotting it, Mark kicked the kitchen door shut with his foot as he gently shepherded Gary against the kitchen counter with his eager hands. If he could not make Gary make sense, he could at least make him forget, and by his quick estimations they had at least a couple of minutes until the kitchen staff would come back and find their working place spotless again. Enough time to do a little less talking.

‘We’ll move in together,’ said Mark, sounding a little distracted as he placed both hands on Gary’s hips as if marking him _his_ , ‘and get a _dog_.’

Gary swallowed. The subtle gesture of Mark licking his lips was almost enough to make him forget about why they were here. ‘T-two dogs,’ he stammered.

‘ _Two_ dogs,’ Mark agreed, his voice now an inexperienced attempt at sounding sexy, ‘and we’ll write and sing and cook and _fuck_ all the time. Where— _ever_ you want me.’ He put his lips to Gary’s ear and enumerated all the places he’d let Gary have him in a whisper.

‘O-oh?’

Mark’s plan was working: Gary had stopped talking about the goddamn case. He no longer looked as worried. For now.

‘ _Mm_. And the person who comes the quickest in the morning will be in charge of the cleaning,’ Mark added as a cruel afterthought.

‘That seems unfair,’ Gary complained before kissing Mark on hi lips, his adrenaline levels so out of this world that he didn’t feel the pain when Mark turned him over against the counter. He didn’t even start to think how awkward it would be if they got caught fucking. It could never be as bad as being arrested for fucking _murder._

But he wouldn’t be arrested, right? Someone else would.

‘Mark,’ Gary said, ‘the inspector said . . .’

‘Twenty minutes. Yes, I heard,’ Mark said distractedly. He rubbed his crotch against the curve of Gary’s arse, hands still firmly on his lover’s hips. ‘Plenty of time, right? We’ll do it quietly this time.’

‘No, I mean, he said . . .’ Gary trailed off, his train of thought interrupted when Mark moved his keen hands to the front of his borrowed trousers and started to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. ‘H-he said _she_. A woman found the murder weapon.’

Mark uttered a disinterested _mm_. ‘What are you saying?’

Gary could feel Mark’s exhales against his ear. Every word he said reverberated against his skin, warming him up and turning him on until even the gentle touch of Mark’s thumbs underneath the hem of his boxers made his cock twitch.  

‘I – I mean,’ Gary went on, still trying his hardest to think and be kissed on the neck at the same time, ‘w-what if the murderer was a woman too?’

Mark pulled down Gary’s trousers and boxers. Less slowly. Impatiently. ‘You mean like Julia?’

Gary shook his head. He released a shaky breath when he heard Mark pull down the zipper of his jeans, and he was again reminded how good it felt to have Mark fuck him that morning: the way Mark would speed up and slow down and speed up in an ever-changing, never constant rhythm, and the way he’d sometimes slip out of him and push in again, harder, harder — the way Mark lifted up Gary’s leg, opening him up further and further until all Gary wanted was to just be _taken_ —

‘I – I mean a woman w-we haven’t considered yet.’

(Did Gary ever stop talking?)

‘A woman we never added to Rob’s casebook, you mean?’ Mark said with much disinterest while he moved his hands down, down, down the perfect curve of Gary’s arse. He’d spank him if he didn’t stop talking about the case soon.

Gary shook his head. ‘No, w-what I mean is, d-don’t you think that the hotel m— _oh God. Oh._ Christ, Mark . . . oh God, _p-please_ . . .’ he moaned, apropos of nothing, when Mark did some very effective teasing with his fingers, and his theory would have been entirely forgotten if not for his bandmate; ever assiduous, ever perceptive, and still peering over his case notes in his room.

Rob had missed something, but what? The murderer wasn’t Gary. It wasn’t Julia, and it couldn’t have been the inspectors. (Mind you, he wouldn’t put it past them.) He’d ruled out the American businessman and the quiet doorman whom Mark had bribed with autographs, as well as some of the lesser members of staff. So who was left? One of the guests? The chef Howard said he liked? He couldn’t figure it out for the life of him, no matter

how

hard

and how gentle Mark fucked Gary in the empty kitchen, the fear still didn’t leave his body. The questions kept swimming in his thoughts.

He was going to be arrested.

No, he wasn’t. Mark would save him. His mates would figure this out.

He was going to end up in prison.

Mark was here, inside of him. Fucking him, hard.

He’d never see him again.

And then Gary was starting to see those beautiful, iridescent stars again, and his feeling of short-lived reverie left him the moment his orgasm did. Mark and Gary got dressed a bit awkwardly, looked at each other, and _knew_. This might have been the final time. Each moment, each touch, each sweet nothing uttered in ecstasy could have been the last. Mark’s fantasy of moving in together? _Ridiculous._

But more ridiculous was that Rob couldn’t figure out the identity of the murderer, still not. What was he missing? It was a she, a woman, and yet he didn’t realise that she was here, in their midst. A person about to ruin Gary’s life. _All_ their lives for that matter, for how would they survive without Gary? Gary was the glue and the melodies that held the band together: without him, they were nothing. Take That was nothing.

There was little time left, and so Rob quickly went to Howard and Jason’s rooms and asked them, _please_ , please _help me figure this out_.

And they almost did.

Only a couple of minutes into their Emergency Band Meeting Jason had to tell Rob to calm down, but it was no use; Rob nearly tore apart his casebook in the hopes of finding _that_ piece of evidence, _that_ piece of information that he’d missed and would disprove his bandmate’s involvement, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember if he even possessed it at all. If so, where had he kept it?

Frustrated by this lack of process, Rob threw the case notebook on the floor, where Howard was sitting in the middle of their scarce collection of evidence: the defaced newspaper, Julia’s letter to Alex. That’s all they had, and a myriad of watertight alibis and confusion to make things even harder for themselves.

Gary couldn’t have done it, but it was even harder to prove who _had_.

Jason took it upon himself to ease the situation. ‘What do we know?’ he asked Rob with his usual adult patience. ‘You’ve been making notes, Robbie; surely there’s _something_?’

Rob shook his head and glanced at the digital clock on the television in the corner of the room. It was the latest model, but barely used; Rob had hardly been able to relax what with the innumerable theories and fantasies – dark, dark fantasies – running wild in his mind every time he so much tried to rest. This case could have been so exciting, so _cool_ , and yet  he’d fucked it up. Big time. _He_ was the one who suggested they go all Poirot, Sherlock Holmes; why hadn’t they pulled it off?

They had five minutes left.

‘Robbie,’ Jason reiterated with emphasis, aware of the lack of time too, ‘what do we know?’

Rob shrugged petulantly. ‘Nothing.’

‘Do we? Cos you was busy writing away in your notebook last time I checked.’ This came from Howard. He was holding the precious casebook his mate had thrown at him, loose pages and all. ‘Better start thinking, mate.’

Rob sighed. ‘We know that Alex was killed between eight and eight thirty on Thursday.  We know the murderer used a knife to kill ‘im and that it was a bird who found it. We know that we can rule out both Julia and Gary cos they were both too busy “cuddling” and “drinking”,’ he said, his fingers making inverted commas in the air. ‘We know that Gary’s being framed, cos we found a newspaper that had his handwriting on it that’s not actually his handwriting.’

‘Which you _stole_ ,’ Howard pointed out playfully.

Rob rubbed his face with his hands and gave an exclamation of frustration. ‘It keeps going back to that _fucking_ paper, don’t it? Find the person who copied Gary’s handwriting, and we find the killer. It’s as simple as that.’

‘See, that’s what _I_ find strange, lads,’ said Jason. ‘Where was the murderer supposed to get a sample of Gary’s handwriting from?’ He looked at his band mates. ‘I haven’t signed anything all week, have you?’

Howard shook his head. As did Rob, who was looking at his case notes more quizzically than ever. Slowly but surely, realisation settled. If Gary didn’t write a single thing this weekend, then —

But Rob never got to voice his theory, for loud sirens then heralded the arrival of the police.

The silence that followed heralded the arrival of the end.

There was no time to lose. The boys looked at each other and ran and ran and ran, away from their stifling bedrooms, but it was already too late.

They saw it all happen, right in front of them. The imposing figures of the arresting police officers. The look on the shocked doorman’s face. And then — _oh_ , and then. Gary. Dragged down the hallway, handcuffs around his wrists. It was like a still image of a movie scene, and then it wasn’t anymore. Then it became real, and fearful, and too much when Mark wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Guests stumbled out of their rooms to judge and gossip. The usually so demure hotel manager looked pleased and relieved, almost calculatedly so. Julia put her hand to her mouth as she watched how Gary was once more dragged away from his  lover by the arresting police officers, all for a murder she knew he didn’t commit. The weather that was framed by the rectangular windows in the reception area was too blue, too bright. Mark was absolutely inconsolable, his joy from his moment with Gary in the kitchen centuries away.

In the middle of it all was Robbie, sensing, seeing, _knowing_ that something was wrong.

He had to figure out what.

He cracked his brain — he knew he had missed something, something so obvious and “in their faces” that it became easy to oversee, a character in this lethal play that appeared to be a minor character but was nothing but — and then the large oak doors behind Gary closed, and the realisation came. It explained absolutely everything: the reason why Alex had been writing away at dinner; how the murderer could perfectly replicate Gary’s handwriting; the reason why Gary was being framed in the first place; the wardrobe change; the curfew; the retired inspectors who just so happened to be in the right place, at the right time — it all led to the same person!

Not allowing himself the time to berate himself for not spotting the clues earlier, Rob pushed through the clamorous crowd and went upstairs, to the one place people weren’t interested in anymore. His mind flashed back to the scribbled newspaper that he found at the murder scene, and he just _knew_ he was right.

He half-fell into Alex’s room a minute later.

Alex the reviewer. Alex, who could boil people’s blood with his brazen opinions. His reviews would drive anyone to murder, but mostly if you had a well-respected establishment to run.

Outside he could hear poor Mark’s pleas as Gary was led inside the police car, and Rob quickly began to realise that every second counted. A second wasted could mean the end of the band as they knew it.

Rob hastened towards the writing desk and opened one drawer after another. Dissatisfied, he tore them out and upended them, their contents spilling out in front of him, but he did not find what he was looking for.

‘Think, Rob,’ he said to himself as he cast another cursory glance at the desk. His hand was on his chest in an attempt to calm down his racing heartbeat. ‘It has to _be_ here.’

‘Are you looking for this, Mr. Williams?’ sounded a calm, female voice, and Rob’s heart leapt in the realisation that he was suddenly in grave danger. He turned around, and faced the hotel manager.

The manager, in her black, spotless outfit, had closed and locked the door without Rob noticing. He was stuck in a room with a murderer.


	8. The End?

‘I have to hand it to you, I didn’t think you’d ever figure it out,’ the hotel manager said in a level voice. She was looking at a particular page of Alex’s notebook, one nail-polished finger pointing at a certain excerpt as if she was about to read it aloud, and Rob’s stomach made an unpleasant backflip at the realisation that she could tear up and throw away the notebook – a vital piece of evidence – anytime she wished. It was the only piece of evidence that worked in Gary’s favour. ‘For a moment I even thought you suspected Mr. Barlow yourself.’

Rob swallowed. What the hell was he getting himself into here? ‘Only for a sec,’ he admitted, his voice shaky in spite of his best efforts not to let his fear show, ‘when I thought Gary’s handwriting was all over the newspaper.’

The manager groaned. ‘Ah yes, the newspaper you took from the _crime scene_. Thought you were being clever, were you?’

Rob gave a tiny, fearful shake of his head. ‘I just wanted to read the review for meself.’

‘And are you pleased you did? Did Alex _praise_ you? Did he think you were an integral part of the band?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘He thought I was a bit shit.’

The hotel manager smirked. ‘Ah well,’ she went on apropos of nothing, ‘it’s not like the police need the newspaper to prove Mr. Barlow’s involvement _anyway_ ; he’s already done my job for me by getting his hands all over the murder weapon. Such a shame, he _was_ always my favourite. Unlike you.’ At this, she paused to look at Robbie’s shaking form in front of her. She could easily kill him right there, in cold blood — but oh, what a mess it would make on her precious carpet. She did so hate it when she had to clean things herself. ‘You always knew it was me, though, didn’t you?’ she went on, ‘Even _before_ you started your own private investigation. Quite impressive, I must say. For a _popstar_.’

‘I – I had me suspicions.’

‘What gave it away?’ she asked, with genuine curiosity.

Rob swallowed as he gave the window a calculating glance. He wondered if he’d survive a fall from the balcony if he had to escape and found the door indeed locked. They _were_ only one floor up and he’d previously survived climbing into fans’ bedroom windows (yes, really), but if he fell and got himself killed would it not look like an accident instead of a murder? He could try to clamber to the next room, except — _oh_ , it didn’t have a balcony. Alex’s room was the only room on this floor that did.

The manager motioned Rob to talk with a wave of her hand. ‘Oh come on, _do_ tell. How did you find out it was me? Quick, now.’

‘The n-notebook,’ Rob stammered. He took a step backwards, but bumped into the writing desk.

He had nowhere to go. He was in a room with a murderer, and he was _stuck_.

He had to bide for time. It was the only thing he could do. ‘Me and Gaz found it yesterday, and — and I only figured this out a minute ago, but there’s this two-star hotel review in it, isn’t there? A review about _your_ hotel,’ Rob said, voice trembling. ‘That’s why Alex could afford all those posh suits, it’s cos people paid ‘im to write good reviews about just about anything. But you didn’t, did ya? You refused to pay, and he wasn’t ‘aving it.’

Rob started when the manager snapped the notebook shut. ‘Oh, _very_ good, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ the manager corrected him. ‘You see, I _did_ pay him. Royally, in fact. But the greedy bastard told me that he’d still publish his two-star review if I didn’t give him a bigger cheque, and, well . . . let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye,’ she said with a spine-tingling smile that made her look like a villain from one of Rob’s American comic books. ‘Bad reviews aren’t very good for business, see?’

‘Neither is murder.’

‘Oh, but I never meant for the body to be _found_.’

The way the manager put the emphasis on “found” made alarm bells ring in Rob’s mind. He blindly felt for a potential weapon on the writing desk behind him but found only the vase that Gary had almost knocked over yesterday, and a pen.

A pen and a red vase. That’s what Rob had to defend himself with. ‘M-me mates will notice I’ve gone,’ he stuttered. He needed an idea, quickly. ‘I-I’m part of a band, you know.’

‘You’re _expendable,_ ’ hissed the manager. ‘All of you, even that _blonde_ songwriter. No-one will care if you get replaced by a younger, handsomer boy.’

Rob caught the shimmer of a knife in the manager’s left hand. He was likely to be killed in the same way as Alex, which meant . . .

Oh, why could he not come up with a plan! His life depended on it!

If he died, the only thing that would flash before his eyes would be the back of one tour van after another and the odd performance abroad; flashes of nights spent with unfamiliar girls in unfamiliar bedrooms; snapshots of clubs and venues and dressing rooms and studios, but nothing that mattered; never mind his career, he wanted someone to look at him like Gary looked at Mark, and _live_ —

And that’s when Rob had an idea.

Think about it; the hotel manager had clearly used Gary’s love letter to Mark to copy his handwriting and deface the newspaper to make it look like Gary hated Alex, but that’s the thing; Gary had written said love letter in _May_! If the hotel manager thought the letter was unimportant when she herself found it she would have just thrown it away, but she hadn’t, which meant she kept a _stash_ of these things. Documents, letters, receipts — she saved anything she thought might come in useful later. And who could blame her? Rich, important or plainly famous individuals visited her hotel all the time; they were bound to leave something important by accident, and she was absolutely convinced she had the right to misuse her position.

It was not only murder she could get arrested for.

‘I found the letter,’ Rob lied. ‘The one you used to copy’s Gary’s handwriting onto the newspaper that I found at the crime scene?  It was in your office. In your . . . safe. Where you keep all the other documents you’ve stolen.’

His first try, and he had struck gold.

‘You broke into my _office_?’ the manager cried, visibly flustered by this unexpected news.

‘Yes. But d’you know what,’ Rob said with a curt nod at the knife in the murderer’s hands, his voice now level thanks to the newfound courage that was coursing through his veins, ‘I’ll give the letter back to ya. _And_ the newspaper, and I won’t tell anyone that you’re stealing people’s stuff. But only if you let me live.’

The manager swallowed. She knew that if Robbie took the scribbled newspaper as _well_ as Gary’s love letter to the police and explained where he had found them, the officers might find out that Gary hadn’t defaced the newspaper after all. The two sets of handwriting definitely weren’t a match no matter how hard she’d tried to replicate it, and if Gary admitted where he was on Thursday he might be released after all!

Oh, why oh why had she gone through so much trouble to make the evidence at the crime scene point towards Gary? Everything now depended on her getting back the pieces of evidence that this boy had in his possession, and burning everything . . . she’d burn her entire stash of stolen documents if she had to, as long as she wasn’t charged with murder and got away with it all . . . who could run the best four-star hotel in the area but she? If she left, the whole place would become a shambles!

But would Robbie really risk losing his bandmate in exchange for his life?

‘Your friend will end up in prison if you give what’s mine back to me,’ the manager pointed out, her voice not as steady as it had been. ‘Don’t you want to prevent that?’

Rob, who had by now warmed to his story, gave a boyish shrug. ‘I never liked ‘im, anyway. You’ve read the review, haven’t ya? He doesn’t care about anyone in the band, him. He’s just using the band to make a name for ‘imself and go solo.’

Overwhelmed by it all, he took a moment to catch his breath and crossed his arms over his chest to hide how much he was shaking. While there was a definite truth to what he was saying, he also didn’t like lying about his bandmates . . . ‘Maybe if he disappears I’ll be made lead singer like I deserve. Show everyone I can handle meself. You can do that for me, can’t you? Make him disappear,’ he reiterated, and that’s when he knew he had the manager right where he wanted her.

She believed every word. Her mind was changed.

The manager pointed her knife at Rob’s chest. ‘Get me to the letter. But try anything funny, and you’ll be sorry you ever came here. You got that? No funny business.’

‘Or you’ll beat me up like you did with Gaz?’

‘I was just trying to warn him,’ said the manager, sounding less and less convinced of herself by the second. ‘If you don’t do as I say I can still do the same to you. Now move.’

‘Of course,’ Rob intoned, and he waited for the manager to head to the door and open it, knife still held in her hand — she turned the doorknob, opened the door slowly, and Rob made a run for it and sped out of the corridor! But moving even faster was his bandmate Mark, who had resolved to follow Gary to the police station by nicking the American businessman’s car keys and hopping into his supercar: driving, driving, driving. Never stopping, never looking back. Always stepping on the gas, unaware of how much trouble Robbie was in back at the hotel. Hoping, by God, that he wouldn’t be too late.

That was always his problem: arriving at places at the right moment, or even at all. He was often the last person to arrive at rehearsals and the last person to get out of bed in the morning. He just didn’t know how to do it, getting somewhere on time. Even when he had a date with Gary he’d often be twenty minutes late because of how long he spent putting goddamn product in his hair, but not today. Mark didn’t know the area that well, but he’d seen a police station on their way to the hotel and he guessed that was exactly where Gary was headed. There was no other place where he’d be.

The car drove over a rather painful bump at breakneck speed, and Mark decided there and then that he’d royally compensate the businessman for the damage to his car later; now, bumps and scratches and speeding tickets were the least of the boy bander’s worries.

The car tyres squeaked as Mark took a sharp left corner onto a long country road. Faster he went still, sending dust and rubble flying in his wake. He drove through a deep puddle, and water splashed on either side of the car, smudging the doors with mud and dirt and ridding the red bodywork of its original sheen.

Mark didn’t care.

There was every chance that he was going the wrong way and that the only glimpse he’d catch of Gary would be of him disappearing behind a strong steel door guarded by two men, but it could hardly be worse than having his lover taken away from him only moments after their brief session of love-making, his rights read to him by a sardonic police officer. He should have punched the bloody guy.

Not forgetting his manners, Mark stopped to let a cyclist pass, then sped off again with a deafening, indulgent roar of the engine that turned his insides upside-down.

Under different circumstances, Mark would no doubt have enjoyed driving the car. He might even have enjoyed the stomach-flipping, heart-stopping feeling of acceleration that felt so similar to how Gary made him feel time and time again, his every heartbeat at risk of being skipped. But now, the car was just noise. A means of getting him somewhere; a dark reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Gary was always going to be slightly out of reach like a satanic game between cat and mouse.

Gary was his, but he could so easily not have been. Had Gary not taken the plunge and written him that love letter all those months ago, they might not ever have gotten together. Mark was always the spontaneous one, the smiler, the guy everyone liked and wanted to be with, but when it came to asking Gary out he was a bloody coward. Suggesting to Gary they have sex took him days, weeks to muster up the courage for. Gary never knew that.

Others might have called Mark brave, intrepid – brave for being what he was in a world where image mattered most, brave for just speeding off and trying to save what he had – but he was none of those things, not to himself. None of his reckless driving and sleuthing was brought on by a need to be bold; it was brought on by fear, completely and utterly.

He’d always been afraid of losing Gary. You can’t lose something you don’t have, and now that he had it – him – he was _terrified_ of one day no longer intimately owning him. Growing apart. Breaking up. Having a row and never getting together again. Or worse, being tempted into a stranger’s bed and finding yourself incapacitated by a different kind of love. That’s what he feared most, for the both of them. If Mark no longer had Gary, then what was he still in Take That for?  

But this was different. This was nothing their love songs had warned Mark for and nothing he was equipped against. Their brief rendezvous in the kitchen was supposed to have been one of the rare zeniths of their stay here, a gentle reminder of what they had, not a subdued celebration of the little time they’d shared. That’s exactly what this was turning into, however: a curt, life-changing moment in time when everything was reversed and nothing made sense, and so it came as a surprise to no-one when Mark plonked his car in the middle of the parking lot and _legged_ it to the police station.

This was a man desperate not to lose the things he held dear.

If this entire trip had been about finding out what lovers did or didn’t do, he’d learned one thing: lovers stormed into buildings, asking, _demanding_ to see their — ‘Mate. He’s m-my mate,’ Mark told the bored-looking desk officer, his voice wobbly and his body tense after the bumpy ride he’d had. ‘He was arrested and taken here?’ he added uncertainly when the officer looked at him blankly. She clearly thought her job tepid and unexciting.

In the conversation’s pause, Mark looked round him for the first time since getting there and saw that the officer’s expression mirrored those of the people around them: everyone in the reception looked either distraught, bored, unhappy, or a mix of all three. He wondered how many of them were criminals.

Typically, the police station was bland and depressing. There was a row of bland metal chairs vacated by two or three people who indeed looked rather shifty, and each wall was decorated with one poster after another: simple pamphlets telling local residents to eschew violence; maps of the area; a list of instructions about what to do if your car has been stolen (Mark decided to ignore that one); but also lugubrious WANTED posters with creepy people’s faces on them. In a far corner, a young girl was talking to someone on the phone in tears. Mark wondered if he would soon be doing the same thing.

The station’s bleak, squalid interior was worlds removed from the hotel’s, which now seemed warmer and more welcoming than its incidents would have you believe. A rather large, buff officer was watching him from afar with his arms crossed, and if Mark listened carefully he could even hear the screams of the people who’d been locked behind bars . . .

Oh, Gary.

‘Please, Miss,’ Mark went on, desperation audible in his voice now, ‘He’s me best mate.’ His voice broke mid-sentence, and he had to take a deep breath in order to stay his nerves. ‘I just want to know if he’s all right.’

The desk officer looked dubious but typed something on her keyboard anyway. ‘He the one who got brought in for nicking that Mars bar from Tesco?’

‘Er . . .’

She squinted. ‘The hotel murder, then.’

Mark looked round him again, then nodded. One of the people on the metal chairs – a large sort of fella – was sneering at him throughout the conversation. (Eavesdropping little sod.) ‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Name?’

‘Mark Owen,’ Mark whispered. ‘I mean, Gary. Gary Barlow. That’s me mate’s name, Gary.’

Mark’s heart did a little flutter when the officer typed something in, gave a demonstrative click of her mouse and — said nothing. She remained silent for well over a minute as she stared at her monitor with no emotion at all. (Rob would by now have gotten out his celebrity trump card and told the officer that he was in a _boy band_ , and consequently bribe her with autographs and the abundant fluttering of eyelashes, but she didn’t look like the boy band type.)   

‘Sorry, Miss,’ Mark said, his impatience belying his politeness, ‘i-is there anything you could tell me?’

But just as the officer was about to open her mouth and speak, the phone rang. The emotionless officer told Mark ‘a moment’ and answered, and Mark immediately fell into a valley of self-doubt and hesitation.  

He was not to blame. He’d done everything he could. Their mates, too, had done everything possible to prevent the worst from happening. This was beyond them. The only reason Mark was here was because of an unpreventable series of events the boys had nothing to do with. Nothing else. The only thing they could do was wait and hope for the allegations to be refuted, and be there for Gary every step along the way if he had to. But he didn’t have to, for the desk officer then put down her phone and told him that Gary was to be released this instant.

Mark blinked. He wasn’t really sure whether he’d heard that right. Gary was to be —?

Thinking his hearing may be going after his few years of gigging and clubbing in the music industry, Mark bent over the desk and leaned towards the officer as much as his small frame let him. ‘I don’t think I understand, Miss,’ he said, heart beating a little faster again.

The officer kept up her phlegmatic guard. ‘There is very little I can disclose at the moment, but what I can confirm is that an individual at the hotel confessed to the murder at 11:00 hours and asked to be brought in,’ she intoned. ‘Your friend is no longer a suspect and will henceforth be released. Oh, there he is,’ she added disinterestedly before returning to the large, grey monitor in front of her and leaving Mark to look round him, heart in throat, until his heart swelled at the sight of his lover.

Gary walked into the reception on his own via a side door, flustered but unharmed, and waving at Mark like a big bloody idiot.

_He was here._

Mark couldn’t believe it. All those dangerous adventures, all the follies they’d been through, and Gary was safe. _Safe_ , and oh so beautiful.

‘Oh, Gaz . . .’ Fighting the urge to run towards Gary open-armed like the characters in his sister’s chick flicks, Mark slowly started towards his lover as coolly and nonchalantly as he could, but with his legs feeling like jelly and his near-collapsing heart racing hard in his throat. It was if they were seeing each other for the first time again, the police station a dreary substitute of the club they’d first met at.

Mark thought Gary looked so beautiful that day.

By the time the boys finally embraced like only two lovers could, Mark’s cheeks were wet with tears.

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Mark whispered into Gary’s ear, voice shaky. He breathed in Gary’s scent and felt every part of his anxiety leave him like a long, deep exhale. This is where he wanted to be every moment of the day, in Gary’s arms. Safe, and loved. Regardless of circumstances. God, he loved him.

‘So did I,’ Gary said, rubbing Mark’s back until the stares of the people around them forced them to let go and pretend they were nothing but mates. (It was a good thing none of the people here looked like they particularly enjoyed or even knew Take That’s music.)

Mark looked Gary up and down as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was standing right in front of him. He brushed a bit of dirty off Gary’s shoulder, where his hand lingered a bit longer than it should. ‘What happened?’

Gary let out a deep breath. ‘The murderer confessed, I think. I guess she didn’t want to keep it secret anymore.’

‘ _She_?’

‘The manager.’

Mark’s eyes went wide. ‘Of the _hotel_?’ he surmised. ‘But why?’

Gary gave a tired shrug. ‘Dunno, the police wouldn’t say. Rob found out about it, apparently. About her having done it, I mean.’

The words reached Mark’s ears, but they didn’t quite register in his head. The hotel manager . . . Rob . . . His head hurt.

‘You okay though, Gaz?’ Mark asked when his mind emptied itself of murder-related questions that needed asking. ‘Did you treat you right, the officers who — I mean, they didn’t hurt you, did they? Cos if they did . . .’

‘They didn’t hurt me,’ Gary answered tersely.

‘You sure?’ Mark pushed him, more than ready to sue the police for their gross iniquity.

‘Mark, I’m _fine_. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not going to be arrested.’

Mark nodded slowly, then rubbed his temples as if he was sporting a great big headache. ‘I know, I just — you know.’ He sighed, then went on, ‘I was so scared of losing you, Gaz. Of never seeing you again. I’ve never felt that way before. Ever. I even . . . _stole_ someone’s car to get here,’ he added under his breath, aware of the fact that the desk officer was still watching him closely.

‘ _Mark_!’ Gary exclaimed, horrified, before making a genuinely impressed face. ‘Seriously?’

Mark nodded and briefly showed Gary the car keys. ‘The businessman’s,’ he explained before slipping the key back into his pocket again.

‘Did you think, “Maybe if I get arrested for car theft me boyfriend won’t get arrested for murder?”’ Gary joked. ‘Cos Nigel’s gonna love that.’

‘It _is_ a nice car, though.’

‘You don’t still wanna elope, do you?’

Mark chuckled. It _was_ a nice thought, but no. Today, he just wanted to take Gary home and maybe, just maybe, if they were both up for it . . .

‘Let’s just go back to the hotel, you and I,’ Mark said, ‘and go home. What’d you think?’

‘I’d love that, Mark. I’d love that.’

|||||

After Mark and Gary had returned to the hotel to pick up their stuff and slipped the business man’s car keys back into his pockets, Rob practically jumped on them in the corridor and pushed the happy couple into his room to tell them how he alone realised the hotel manager had done it. Howard and Jason were already there, all agog to know what had transpired in the victim’s room.

Rob, he said, suspected the hotel manager from the moment she showed up to tell everyone about inspectors Davies and Alexander. She had quickly changed into a formal black outfit to show her respects, but she hadn’t bothered to change her shoes; Rob later realised they had blood on them, and one look into her wardrobe would later prove that the white blouse she’d been wearing before was stained with blood. Alex’s.

Then there was the issue of Gary’s supposed handwriting on the newspaper which Rob accidentally stole from the crime scene; only someone who owned a lengthy piece of writing by Gary could have planted it there. At first, Rob assumed that this would rule out almost everyone at the hotel – he even started to suspect the fans that had been hiding in the bushes when they first arrived here; he unfortunately wouldn’t put murdering past them –, but then he remembered the love letter. Gary had pretty much implied that it had gone missing, which could only mean that someone at the hotel still owned it.

Angie the waitress, perhaps? Or one of the maids? The chef, maybe?

No.

The manager.

But there was another thing. Her having the letter in her possession also meant that she knew about Mark and Gary’s love affair, which she was probably clever enough to use to her advantage if she somehow discovered that they were planning to have sex on the night of the murder. It was almost too clever a plan, but she had forgotten _one_ thing: she had practiced Gary’s handwriting, over and over. On a piece of paper that the police later found in her trash bin.

Then Alex’s two-star review and the manager’s secret stash of stolen letters and documents surfaced, and the verdict was clear: the obviously corrupt, avaricious manager had done it, and what was almost impressive was that it wasn’t premeditated. She planted the clues that pointed towards Gary not _before_ the murder, but in the half hour that took place between the heinous act and Julia finding the body. With the bad review about _Everything Changes_ and the row that followed, Gary was suddenly the perfect scapegoat, and he fulfilled his role perfectly.

‘What happened after you confronted the manager though?’ said Gary. They were all sitting on Rob’s bed again, with their stuffed suitcases and rucksacks dotted on the floor around them. With their performance at the awards ceremony having been cancelled, the suitcases almost gave the impression that they’d just had a very odd but exciting holiday.

‘I ran off after I’d lied to her that I nicked the love letter that _she’d_ nicked,’ explained Rob. He inserted a deliberate pause for dramatic effect, and went on, ‘It slipped her mind that she was still holding a knife though so half of the staff caught her runnin’ after me lookin’ like she was a character out of a horror movie or something. Then How showed up and jumped on her and she got really angry and threatened to kill us all. T’was really dramatic.’

Howard nodded to show that he agreed.

‘The inspectors phoned the police station ten minutes later, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘About those inspectors though,’ began Mark (he was sitting on Gary’s lap because Rob’s bed was “too small”, apparently), ‘was it a coincidence that they were there?’

Jason nodded. ‘Yeah. They really _were_ just there on holiday. I think it’s safe to say that the manager saw a chance and she took it. She knew they’d never figure out it was her; they’d been away from the force for too long, hadn’t they?’

‘What confuses _me_ , though,’ said Gary, ‘is how she knew that me and Mark would be in the middle of — you know, _cuddling_ , and that I probably wouldn’t want anyone to know about it.’ He shivered. ‘There aren’t any cameras in our rooms, are there?’

A cheeky grin played on Mark’s lips at the word “camera”, but he did his best to hide it. ‘You _did_ end your love letter with ‘Please don’t share this with anyone,’ Gaz.’ He paused as if considering whether he should share his next point. ‘And I may’ve, er, left a trail of condoms on the way to your room.’

Gary’s eyes went wide. ‘What, deliberately?’

‘No, not deliberately! I lost them, didn’t I? There was seventeen in me pockets when I went to your room and thirteen when I checked again, so . . .’

‘I still can’t believe you brought that many, Mark.’

‘Well, I thought, one for each —’ Mark spotted the aghast looks on his co-workers faces, and he stopped midsentence. ‘Anyway, the manager must’ve seen that and put two and two together.’

Mark paused again to look at Gary’s face, so beautiful, and _his_. To think that there was once a significant chance that they would lose each other was tremendously frightening. It was something he never wanted to experience, ever again. He liked Gary as he was, right here, no longer scared to admit who he was but finally willing to share their secret with their best mates. It was the one thing he’d always wanted.  

He placed a soft peck on Gary’s forehead, and when that elicited a delicious chorus of fake _ews_ from his colleagues, he placed another one on Gary’s lips. They felt just as soft as he remembered them from that morning.

‘I’m just glad this is all behind us and that we’ll never have to deal with murder again,’ Mark said, to the rest of his mates. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to watch procedurals for weeks.’

‘Same here,’ mumbled Gary.

‘Shall we just go home, lads?’ Jason suggested.

‘Good idea.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lemme just pack me bags, boys . . .’

And so, the boys quietly filed out of the hotel one by one, truly expecting that their van would take them back home, where they could sleep and rest and make love until another flood came and forced them to stay home and make yet more love; for a moment, they genuinely did believe that the worst of this weekend’s tribulations would be over and that nothing could ever be worse than that, but then the van took a wrong turning. And took them straight to the venue where the awards ceremony was being held.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Gary moaned. He had almost dozed off against Mark’s shoulder, but a large bump in the road woke him. When he looked out of the window, he saw the large shape of the concert venue slowly approach towards them. The large billboards with various artists’ faces were already discernible from a distance. Take That’s was the biggest. ‘We haven’t even rehearsed!’

‘Tough. You’ll be miming,’ said Nigel, who was sitting in the front seat and had therefore not seen how comfortably Mark and Gary were sitting. ‘Perform,’ he warned, ‘or miss out on a number one album. Your choice.’

‘I don’t want to get ahead of myself, Nige,’ said Jason carefully, ‘but aren’t we already on course for a number one with or without that awards ceremony? We’re _tired_!’ A look round at his colleagues seemed to suggest that everyone was indeed feeling the same way.

‘I agree with Jay, Nige,’ said Gary. ‘Not to sound like I don’t wanna do this, all right, but you don’t want us to —’ he wanted to say “You don’t want us to die on live television, do you?”, but given the recent events that comment seemed a bit insensitive so instead he went for, ‘You don’t want us to deliver a bad performance, do you, Nige?’

Nigel ignored the boys’ comments. ‘We’re up for an award as well, by the way, and if we don’t show up we’ll probably not win it. We’re doing this.’

‘ _Great_ ,’ sighed Gary. He straightened as the van disappeared behind a large, black gate and drove straight into the venue’s parking area. It was a small relief that the only people there was a bevy of security guards and technicians; there were no fans or journalists to ask them about the strange affairs at the hotel, if word had even spread at all. ‘Who’re we up against?’

‘Some kid from London, for best single,’ explained Nigel. ‘He’s being heralded as the next big thing, although _I’ve_ never heard of him. It’s either him or us; the other two nominees are fucking awful.’

The boys were too tired to argue. They were doing this performance whether they liked it or not, and Mark’s plans to rim Gary on his sofa had to wait.

The rest was Take That on automatic pilot. They got out of the van a couple of minutes later and were immediately shoved into a tiny dressing room replete with various questionable outfits to change into. They were doing the medley that Nigel was talking about a couple of days ago, and if they could please remember the steps to _Everything Changes_ this time.

After Gary had gotten over the smug glee of seeing Mark’s naked body again (he had _fucked_ that body, he thought; how utterly brilliant), the boys went to next door’s dressing room to wish their competition for Best Single good luck — and found the singer from London on the floor.

Dead.

‘You don’t happen to have your case notebook with you, do you, Rob?’

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that marks the ending of this fic. Sorry it took so long, and thank you for reading and supporting it throughout.


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